John  Ingerfield 


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JOHN   INGERFIELD. 


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JKROMl-:    K.    jl'.Ro.MI': 


JOHN    INGERFIELD 


AND  OTHER  STORIES 


JEROME  K.  JEROME 


NEW    YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
1804 


Copyright,  1893,  1894, 

BV 

JEROME   K.   JEROME. 


THU    MKRSHON   COMPANY    PRESS, 

RAIIWAV,    N.    }. 


J3 


TO  THE  GENTLE  READER; 

ALSO 

TO  THE  GENTLE  CRITIC. 


/^NCE  upon  a  time,  I  wrote  a 
^-^  little  story  of  a  woman  who 
was  crushed  to  death  by  a  python. 
A  day  or  two  after  its  publication^ 
a  friend  stopped  me  in  the  street. 
"  Charming  little  story  of  yours,^ 
he  said,  "  that  about  the  woman  and 
the  snake  ;  but  it's  not  as  funny  as 
sotne  of  your  things  !  "  The  next 
week,  a  newspaper,  referring  to  the 
tale,  remarked,  '■'■We  have  heard 
the  incident  related  before  with  in- 
finitely greater  humor." 

With  this — and  many  similar  ex- 
periences— in  mind,  I  wish  distinctly 


VI    TO  THE  GENTLE  READER. 

to  state  that  ''John  Ifigerfiehi," 
''The  Wojuan  of  the  Sceter"  and 
"Silhouettes,"  are  not  intended  to  be 
amusing.  The  other  two  items — 
"Variety  Patter"  and  "The  Lease 
of  the  Cross  Keys  " — /  give  over  to 
the  critics  of  the  new  humor  to  rejid 
as  they  will;  but  "John  Ingerfield" 
"The  Woman  of  the  Sixter"  and 
"Silhouettes"  I  repeat,  I  should  be 
glad  if  they  would  Judge  from  some 
other  standpoint  than  that  of  humor, 
new  or  old. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

In  Remembrance  of  John  Inger- 

FIELD,  AND  OF   AnNE,   HIS  WiFE  3 

The  Woman  of  the  S^.ter  .  95 
Variety  Patter  ....  i43 
Silhouettes  ....  I77 
The  Lease  of  the  "  Cross  Keys  "  209 


Hn  IRemembrance  of 
3obn  Unoertielt),  anb 
of  anne,  bis  Mife. 

A  STORY  OF  OLD  LONDON,  IN  TWO 
CHAPTERS. 


CHAPTER   I. 

F  you  take  the  Under- 
ground Railway  to 
Whitechapel  Road  (the 
East  station),  and  from  there 
take  one  of  the  yellow  tram- 
cars  that  start  from  that  point, 
and  go  down  the  Commercial 
Road,  past  the  George,  in 
front     of     which     stands  —  or 


4  JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

used  to  stand — a  high  flagstaff, 
at  the  base  of  which  sits — or 
used  to  sit — an  elderly  female 
purveyor  of  pigs'  trotters  at 
three-ha'pence  apiece,  until  you 
come  to  where  a  railway  arch 
crosses  the  road  obliquely, 
and  there  get  down  and  turn 
to  the  right  up  a  narrow,  noisy 
street  leading  to  the  river, 
and  then  to  the  right  again 
up  a  still  narrower  street, 
which  you  may  know  by  its 
having  a  public  house  at  one 
corner  (as  is  in  the  nature  of 
things)  and  a  marine  store 
dealer's  at  the  other,  outside 
which  strangely  stiff  and  un- 
accommodating garments  of 
gigantic  size  flutter  ghostlike 
in  the  wind,  you  will  come  to  a 


A   dhtj^y  7-ailed-iii  Churchyard 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.  5 

dingy,  railed  in  churchyard,  sur- 
rounded on  all  sides  by  cheer- 
less, many-peopled  houses.  Sad- 
looking  little  old  houses  they 
are  in  spite  of  the  tumult  of  life 
about  their  ever  open  doors. 
They  and  the  ancient  church  in 
their  midst  seem  weary  of  the 
ceaseless  jangle  around  them. 
Perhaps,  standing  there  for  so 
many  years,  listening  to  the  long 
silence  of  the  dead,  the  fretful 
voices  of  the  living  sound  foolish 
in  their  ears. 

Peering  through  the  railings 
on  the  side  nearest  the  river,  you 
will  see  beneath  the  shadow  of 
the  soot-grimed  church's  soot- 
grimed  porch — that  is,  if  the 
sun  happen,  by  rare  chance,  to 
be  strong  enough  to  cast  any 


6  JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

shadow  at  all  in  that  region  of 
gray  light — a  curiously  high  and 
narrow  headstone  that  once  was 
white  and  straight,  not  tottering 
and  bent  with  age  as  it  is  now. 
There  is  upon  this  stone  a  carv- 
ing in  bas-relief,  as  you  will  see 
for  yourself  if  you  will  make 
your  way  to  it  through  the  gate- 
way on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
square.  It  represents,  so  far  as 
can  be  made  out,  for  it  is  much 
worn  by  time  and  dirt,  a  figure 
lying  on  the  ground  with  an- 
other figure  bending  over  it, 
while  at  a  little  distance  stands 
a  third  object.  But  this  last  is 
so  indistinct  that  it  might  be 
almost  anything,  from  an  angel 
to  a  post. 

And  below  the   carving   are 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.  J 

the  words  (already  half  obliter- 
ated) that  I  have  used  for  the 
title  of  this  story. 

Should  you  ever  wander  of  a 
Sunday  morning  within  sound 
of  the  cracked  bell  that  calls  a 
few  habit-bound,  old-fashioned 
folk  to  worship  within  those 
damp-stained  walls,  and  drop 
into  talk  with  the  old  men  who 
on  such  days  sometimes  sit, 
each  in  his  brass-buttoned  long 
brown  coat,  upon  the  low  stone 
coping  underneath  those  broken 
railings,  you  might  hear  this 
tale  from  them,  as  I  did,  more 
years  ago  than  I  care  to 
recollect. 

But  lest  you  do  not  choose  to 
go  to  all  this  trouble,  or  lest  the 
old  men  who  could  tell  it  you 


8  JOHN  INGERFIELB. 

have  grown  tired  of  all  talk,  and 
are  not  to  be  roused  ever  again 
into  the  telling  of  tales,  and  you 
yet  wish  for  the  story,  I  will 
here  set  it  down  for  you. 

But  I  cannot  recount  it  to 
you  as  they  told  it  to  me,  for 
to  me  it  was  only  a  tale  that 
I  heard  and  remembered,  think- 
ing to  tell  it  again  for  profit, 
while  to  them  it  was  a  thing 
that  had  been,  and  the  threads 
of  it  were  interwoven  with  the 
woof  of  their  own  life.  As 
they  talked  faces  that  I  did 
not  see  passed  by  among  the 
crowd  and  turned  and  looked 
at  them,  and  voices  that  I  did 
not  hear  spoke  to  them  below 
the  clamor  of  the  street,  so 
that  through  their  thin  piping 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.  9 

voices  there  quivered  the  deep 
music  of  life  and  death,  and  my 
tale  must  be  to  theirs  but  as  a 
gossip's  chatter  to  the  story  of 
him  whose  breast  has  felt  the 
press  of  battle. 

John  Ingerfield,  oil  and  tal- 
low refiner,  of  Lavender  Wharf, 
Limehouse,  comes  of  a  hard- 
headed,  hard-fisted  stock.  The 
first  of  the  race  that  the  eye  of 
Record,  piercing  the  deepening 
mists  upon  the  centuries  behind 
her,  is  able  to  discern  with  any 
clearness  is  a  long-haired,  sea- 
bronzed  personage,  whom  men 
call  variously  Inge  or  Unger. 
Out  of  the  wild  North  Sea  he 
has  come.  Record  observes 
him,    one    of    a    small,    fierce 


lO        JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

group,  standing  on  the  sands  of 
desolate  Northumbria,  staring 
landward,  his  worldly  wealth 
upon  his  back.  This  consists 
of  a  two-handed  battleax, 
value  perhaps  some  forty  stycas 
in  the  currency  of  the  time. 
A  careful  man,  with  business 
capabilities,  may,  however,  ma- 
nipulate a  small  capital  to  great 
advantage.  In  what  would  ap- 
pear, to  those  accustomed  to 
our  slow  modern  methods,  an 
incredibly  short  space  of  time, 
Inge's  two-handed  battleax  has 
developed  into  wide  lands  and 
many  head  of  cattle ;  which 
latter  continue  to  multiply  with 
a  rapidity  beyond  the  dreams 
of  present  day  breeders.  Inge's 
descendants     would     seem     to 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.  ii 

have  inherited  the  genius  of 
their  ancestor,  for  they  prosper 
and  their  worldly  goods  in- 
crease. They  are  a  money- 
making  race.  In  all  times,  out 
of  all  things,  by  all  means,  they 
make  money.  They  fight  for 
money,  marry  for  money,  live 
for  money,  are  ready  to  die  for 
money. 

In  the  days  when  the  most 
salable  and  the  highest  priced 
article  in  the  markets  of  Europe 
was  a  strong  arm  and  a  cool 
head,  then  each  Ingerfield  (as 
"  Inge,"  long  rooted  in  York- 
shire soil,  had  grown  or  been 
corrupted  to)  was  a  soldier  of 
fortune,  and  offered  his  strong 
arm  and  his  cool  head  to  the 
highest  bidder.      They  fought 


12         JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

for  their  price,  and  they  took 
good  care  that  they  obtained 
their  price;  but,  the  price 
settled,  they  fought  well,  for 
they  were  stanch  men  and 
true,  according  to  their  lights, 
though  these  lights  may  have 
been  placed  somewhat  low 
down,   near  the  earth. 

Then  followed  the  days  when 
the  chief  riches  of  the  world  lay 
tossed  for  daring  hands  to  grasp 
upon  the  bosom  of  the  sea,  and 
the  sleeping  spirit  of  the  old 
Norse  rover  stirred  in  their 
veins,  and  the  lilt  of  a  wild  sea 
song  they  had  never  heard  kept 
ringing  in  their  ears  ;  and  they 
built  them  ships  and  sailed  for 
the  Spanish  Main,  and  won 
much  wealth,  as  was  their  wont. 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.  15 

Later  on,  when  Civilization 
began  to  lay  down  and  enforce 
sterner  rules  for  the  game  of 
life,  and  peaceful  methods 
promised  to  prove  more  profit- 
able than  violent,  the  Ingerfields 
became  traders  and  merchants 
of  grave  mien  and  sober  life  ;  for 
their  ambition  from  generation 
to  generation  remains  ever  the 
same,  their  various  callings 
being  but  means  to  an  end. 

A  hard,  stern  race  of  men 
they  would  seem  to  have  been, 
but  just — so  far  as  they  under- 
stood justice.  They  have  the 
reputation  of  having  been  good 
husbands,  fathers,  and  masters  ; 
but  one  cannot  help  thinking  of 
them  as  more  respected  than 
loved. 


14        JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

They  were  men  to  exact 
the  uttermost  farthing  due  to 
them,  yet  not  without  a  sense 
of  the  thing  due  from  them, 
their  own  duty  and  responsi- 
biHty — nay,  not  altogether  with- 
out their  moments  of  heroism, 
which  is  the  duty  of  great  men. 
History  relates  how  a  certain 
Captain  Ingerfield,  returning 
with  much  treasure  from  the 
West  Indies — how  acquired  it 
were,  perhaps,  best  not  to  in- 
quire too  closely — is  overhauled 
upon  the  high  seas  by  king's 
frigate.  Captain  of  king's  frig- 
ate sends  polite  message  to  Cap- 
tain Ingerfield  requesting  him 
to  be  so  kind  as  to  promptly 
hand  over  a  certain  member  of 
his    ship's    company,   who,  by 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.  15 

some  means  or  another,  has 
made  himself  objectionable  to 
king's  friends,  in  order  that  he 
(the  said  objectionable  person) 
may  be  forthwith  hanged  from 
the  yardarm. 

Captain  Ingerfield  returns 
polite  answer  to  captain  of 
king's  frigate  that  he  (Captain 
Ingerneld)  will,  with  much 
pleasure,  hang  any  member  of 
his  ship's  company  that  needs 
hanging,  but  that  neither  the 
King  of  England  nor  anyone 
else  on  God  Almighty's  sea  is 
going  to  do  it  for  him.  Captain 
of  king's  frigate  sends  back  word 
that  if  objectionable  person  be 
not  at  once  given  up  he  shall  be 
compelled  with  much  regret  to 
send  Captain  Ingcrfield  and  his 


l6         JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

ship  to  the  bottom  of  the  Atlan- 
tic. Replies  Captain  Ingerfield, 
^'  That  is  just  what  he  will  have 
to  do  before  I  give  up  one  of 
my  people,"  and  fights  the  big 
frigate — fights  it  so  fiercely  that 
after  three  hours  captain  of 
king's  frigate  thinks  it  will  be 
good  to  try  argument  again, 
and  sends  therefore  a  further 
message,  courteously  acknowl- 
edging Captain  Ingerfield's 
courage  and  skill,  and  suggest- 
ing that,  he  having  done  suffi- 
cient to  vindicate  his  honor 
and  renown,  it  would  be  politic 
to  now  hand  over  the  unim- 
portant cause  of  contention,  and 
so  escape  with  his  treasure. 

"Tell    your  captain,"  shouts 
back    this    Ingerfield,  who  has 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.  17 

discovered  there  are  sweeter 
things  to  fight  for  than  even 
money,  ''that  the  Wild  Goose 
has  flown  the  seas  with  her 
belly  full  of  treasure  before  now 
and  will,  if  it  be  God's  pleasure, 
so  do  again,  but  that  master 
and  man  in  her  sail  together, 
fight  together,  and  die  together." 
Whereupon  king's  frigate 
pounds  away  more  vigorously 
than  ever,  and  succeeds  eventu- 
ally in  carrying  out  her  threat. 
Down  goes  the  Wild  Goose,  her 
last  chase  ended — down  she 
goes  with  a  plunge,  spit  fore- 
most, with  her  colors  flying ; 
and  down  with  her  goes  every 
man  left  standing  on  her  decks  ; 
and  at  the  bottom  of  the  Atlan- 
tic they  lie  to  this  day,  master 


1 8        JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

and  man  side  by  side,  keeping- 
guard  upon  their  treasure. 

Which  incident,  and  it  is  well 
authenticated,  goes  far  to  prove 
that  the  Ingerfields,  hard  men 
and  grasping  men  though  they 
be — men  caring  more  for  the 
getting  of  money  than  for  the 
getting  of  love — loving  more 
the  cold  grip  of  gold  than  the 
grip  of  kith  or  kin,  yet  b^ar 
buried  in  their  hearts  the  seeds 
of  a  nobler  manhood,  for  which, 
however,  the  barren  soil  of  their 
ambition  affords  scant  nourish- 
ment. 

The  John  Ingerfield  of  this 
story  is  a  man  very  typical  of 
his  race.  He  has  discovered 
that  the  oil  and  tallow  refining 
business,  though  not  a  pleasant 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.         19. 

one,  is  an  exceedingly  lucrative 
one.  These  are  the  good  days 
when  Geoi^e  the  Third  is  king, 
and  London  is  rapidly  becoming 
a  city  of  bright  night.  Tallow 
and  oil  and  all  materials  akin 
thereto  are  in  ever-growing  re- 
quest, and  young  John  Inger- 
field  builds  himself  a  larpre 
refining  house  and  warehouse 
in  the  growing  suburb  of  Lime- 
house,  which  lies  between  the 
teeming  river  and  the  quiet 
fields,  gathers  many  people 
round  about  him,  puts  his  strong 
heart  into  his  work,  and  prospers. 
All  the  days  of  his  youth  he 
labors  and  garners,  and  lays 
out  and  garners  yet  again.  In 
early  middle  age  he  finds  him- 
self a  wealthy  man.     The  chief 


•^o         JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

business  of  life,  the  getting  of 
money,  is  practically  done  ;  his 
enterprise  is  firmly  established, 
and  will  continue  to  grow  with 
ever  less  need  of  husbandry.  It 
is  time  for  him  to  think  about 
the  secondary  business  of  life, 
the  getting  together  of  a  wife 
and  home,  for  the  Ingerfields 
have  ever  been  good  citizens, 
worthy  heads  of  families,  open- 
handed  hosts,  making  a  brave 
show  among  friends  and  neigh- 
bors. 

John  Ingerfield,  sitting  in  his 
stiff,  high-backed  chair,  in  his 
stiffly,  but  solidly,  furnished 
dining  room,  above  his  count- 
ing house,  sipping  slowly  his 
one  glass  of  port,  takes  counsel 
with  himself. 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.  21 

What  shall  she  be  ? 

He  is  rich,  and  can  afford  a 
good  article.  She  must  be 
young  and  handsome,  fit  to 
grace  the  fine  house  he  will 
take  for  her  in  fashionable 
Bloomsbury,  far  from  the  odor 
and  touch  of  oil  and  tallow. 
She  must  be  well  bred,  with  a 
gracious,  noble  manner,  that 
will  charm  his  guests  and  reflect 
honor  and  credit  upon  himself ; 
she  must,  above  all,  be  of  good 
family,  with  a  genealogical  tree 
sufficiently  umbrageous  to  hide 
Lavender  Wharf  from  the  eyes 
of  society. 

What  else  she  may  or  may 
not  be  he  does  not  very  much 
care.  She  will,  of  course,  be 
virtuous  and  moderately  pious, 


2  2         JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

as  it  is  fit  and  proper  that 
women  should  be.  It  will  also 
be  well  that  her  disposition  be 
gentle  and  yielding,  but  that 
is  of  minor  importance,  at  all 
events  so  far  as  he  is  concerned  : 
the  Ingerfield  husbands  are  not 
the  class  of  men  upon  whom 
wives  vent  their  tempers. 

Having  decided  in  his  mind 
what  she  shall  be,  he  proceeds 
to  discuss  with  himself  who  she 
shall  be.  His  social  circle  is 
small.  Methodically,  in  thought, 
he  makes  the  entire  round  of 
it,  mentally  scrutinizing  every 
maiden  that  he  knows.  Some 
arc  charming,  some  are  fair, 
some  are  rich ;  but  no  one  of 
them  approaches  near  to  his 
carefully  considered  ideal. 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.  23 

He  keeps  the  subject  in  his 
mind,  and  muses  on  it  in  the 
intervals  of  business.  At  odd 
moments  he  jots  down  names 
as  they  occur  to  him  upon  a  slip 
of  paper,  which  he  pins  for  the 
purpose  on  the  inside  of  the 
cover  of  his  desk.  He  arranges 
them  alphabetically,  and  when 
it  is  as  complete  as  his  memory 
can  make  it  he  goes  critically 
down  the  list,  making  a  few 
notes  against  each.  As  a  result 
it  becomes  clear  to  him  that  he 
must  seek  among  strangers  for 
his  wife. 

He  has  a  friend,  or  rather  an 
acquaintance,  an  old  school- 
fellow, who  has  developed  into 
one  of  those  curious  social  flies 
that  in  all  ages  are  to  be  met 


24        JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

with  buzzing  contentedly  within 
the  most  exclusive  circles,  and 
concerning  whom,  seeing  that 
they  are  neither  rare  nor  rich, 
nor  extraordinarily  clever  nor 
well  born,  one  wonders  "  how 
the  devil  they  got  there!" 
Meeting  this  man  by  chance 
one  afternoon,  he  links  his  arm 
in  his  and  invites  him  home  to 
dinner. 

So  soon  as  they  are  left  alone, 
with  the  walnuts  and  wine  be- 
tween them,  John  Ingerfield 
says,  thoughtfully  cracking  a 
hard   nut  between   his  fingers: 

"  Will,  I'm  going  to  get  mar- 
ried." 

"Excellent  idea  —  delighted 
to  hear  it,  I'm  sure,"  replies 
Will,  somewhat  less  interested 


Willy  Ptn  going  to  get  tnarried'' 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.         25 

in  the  information  than  in  the 
deHcately  flavored  Madeira  he 
is  lovingly  sipping.  "  Who's 
the  lady?" 

"  I  don't  know  yet,"  is  John 
Ingerfield's  answer. 

His  friend  glances  slyly  at 
him  over  his  glass,  not  sure 
whether  he  is  expected  to  be 
amused  or  sympathetically 
helpful. 

"  I  want  you  to  find  one  for 
me. 

Will  Cathcart  puts  down  his 
glass  and  stares  at  his  host 
across  the  table. 

"  Should  be  delighted  to  help 
you,  Jack,"  he  stammers  in  an 
alarmed  tone — "  'pon  my  soul  I 
should  ;  but  really  don't  know 
a  damned  woman  I  could  rec- 


26         JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

ommend  —  'pon  my  soul  I 
don't." 

"  You  must  see  a  good  many : 
I  wish  you'd  look  out  for  one 
that  you  could  recommend." 

"  Certainly  I  will,  my  dear 
Jack  !  "  answers  the  other  in  a 
relieved  voice.  "  Never  thought 
about  'em  in  that  way  before. 
Dare  say  I  shall  come  across  the 
very  girl  to  suit  you.  I'll  keep 
my  eyes  open  and  let  you  know." 

"  1  shall  be  obliged  to  you  if 
you  will,"  replies  John  Inger- 
ficld  quietly ;  "  and  its  your 
turn,  I  think,  to  oblige  me, 
Will.  I  have  obliged  you,  if 
you  recollect." 

"  Shall  never  forget  it,  my 
dear  Jack,"  murmurs  Will  a 
little  uneasily.    "It  was  uncom- 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.  27 

monly  good  of  you.  You  saved 
me  from  ruin,  Jack  ;  shall  think 
about  it  to  my  dying  day — 'pon 
my  soul  I  shall," 

"  No  need  to  let  it  worry  you 
for  so  long  a  period  as  that," 
returns  John,  with  the  faintest 
suspicion  of  a  smile  playing 
round  his  firm  mouth.  "  The 
bill  falls  due  at  the  end  of  next 
month.  You  can  discharge  the 
debt  then,  and  the  matter  will 
be  off  your  mind. 

Will  finds  his  chair  growing 
uncomfortable  under  him,  while 
the  Madeira  somehow  loses  its 
flavor.  He  gives  a  short,  nerv- 
ous laugh. 

"  By  Jove,"  he  says  ;  "  so  soon 
as  that  ?  The  date  had  quite 
slipped  my  memory." 


2  8        JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

"  Fortunate  that  I  reminded 
you,"  says  John,  the  smile  round 
his  lips  deepening. 

Will  fidgets  on  his  seat.  "  I'm 
afraid,  my  dear  Jack,"  he  says, 
"  I  shall  have  to  get  you  to  re- 
new it,  just  for  a  month  or  two 
— deuced  awkward  thing,  but 
I'm  remarkably  short  of  money 
this  year.  Truth  is  I  can't  get 
what's  owing  to  myself." 

"  That's  very  awkward,  cer- 
tainly," replies  his  friend,  "be- 
cause I  am  not  at  all,  sure  that 
I  shall  be  able  to  renew  it." 

Will  stares  at  him  in  some 
alarm.  "  But  what  am  I  to  do 
if  I  haven't  the  money  ?" 

John  Ingcrfield  shrugs  his 
shoulders. 

"  You  don't  mean,  my  dear 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.  29 

Jack,  that  you  would  put  me  in 
prison  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  Other  people 
have  to  go  there  who  can't  pay 
their  debts." 

Will  Cathcart's  alarm  grows 
to  serious  proportions.  "  But 
our      friendship,"      he      cries, 

our 

"  My  dear  Will,"  interrupts 
the  other,  "  there  are  few  friends 
I  would  lend  three  hundred 
pounds  to  and  make  no  effort 
to  get  it  back.  You,  certainly^ 
are  not  one  of  them. 

"  Let  us  make  a  bargain,"  he 
continues.  "  Find  me  a  wife, 
and  on  the  day  of  my  marriage 
I  will  send  you  back  that  bill 
with,  perhaps,  a  couple  of  hun- 
dred added.       If  by  the  end  of 


30        JOHI^  INGERFIELD. 

next  month  you  have  not  intro- 
duced me  to  a  lady  fit  to  be, 
and  wilHng  to  be,  Mrs.  John 
Ingerfield,  I  shall  decline  to 
renew  it." 

John  Ingerfield  refills  his  own 
glass  and  hospitably  pushes  the 
bottle  toward  his  guest — who, 
however,  contrary  to" his  custom, 
takes  no  notice  of  it,  but  stares 
hard  at  his  shoe  buckles. 

"  Are  you  serious?"  he  says 
at  length. 

"  Quite  serious,"  is  the  answer. 
"  I  want  to  marry.  My  wife 
must  be  a  lady  by  birth  and 
education.  She  must  be  of 
good  family — of  family  suffi- 
ciently good,  indeed,  to  compen- 
sate for  the  refinery.  She  must 
be    young    and    beautiful    and 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.         3 1 

charming.  I  am  purely  a  busi- 
ness man.  I  want  a  woman 
capable  of  conducting  the  social 
department  of  my  life.  I  know 
of  no  such  lady  myself.  I  ap- 
peal to  you  because  you,  I 
know,  are  intimate  with  the 
class  amongwhom  she  must  be 
sought." 

"There  maybe  some  difficulty 
in  persuading  a  lady  of  the 
required  qualifications  to  accept 
the  situation,"  says  Cathcart 
with  a  touch  of  malice. 

"  I  want  you  to  find  one  who 
will,"  says  John  Ingerfield. 

Early  in  the  evening  Will 
Cathcart  takes  leave  of  his  host, 
and  departs  thoughtful  and 
anxious;  and  John  Ingerfield 
strolls  contemplatively  up  and 


32         JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

down  his  wharf,  for  the  smell 
of  oil  and  tallow  has  grown  to 
be  very  sweet  to  him,  and  it  is 
pleasant  to  watch  the  moon- 
beams shining  on  the  piled  up 
casks. 

Six  weeks  go  by.  On  the 
first  day  of  the  seventh  John 
takes  Will  Cathcart's  acceptance 
from  its  place  in  the  large  safe, 
and  lays  it  in  the  smaller  box 
beside  his  desk,  devoted  to  more 
pressingand  immediatebusiness. 
Two  days  later  Cathcart  picks 
his  way  across  the  slimy  yard, 
passes  through  the  counting 
house,  and  enters  his  friend's 
inner  sanctum,  closing  the  door 
behind  him. 

He  wears  a  jubilant  air,  and 
slaps   the   grave    John   on    the 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.         2,^^ 

back.  "  I've  got  her,  Jack,"  he 
cries.  "  It's  been  hard  work,  I 
can  tell  you  :  sounding  suspi- 
cious old  dowagers,  bribing  con- 
fidential servants,  fishing  for  in- 
formation among  friends  of  the 
family.  By  Jove,  I  shall  be  able 
to  join  the  duke's  staff  as  spy- 
in-chief  to  his  Majesty's  entire 
forces  after  this  !  " 

"What  is  she  like?"  asks  John, 
without  stopping  his  writing. 

"  Like  !  My  dear  Jack,  you'll 
fall  over  head  and  ears  in  love 
with  her  the  moment  you  see 
her.  A  little  cold,  perhaps,  but 
that  will  just  suit  you." 

"  Good  family?  "  asks  John, 
signing  and  folding  the  letter  he 
has  finished. 

"  So  good  that  I  was  afraid  at 


34        JOHN  JNGERl'JELD. 

first  it  would  be  useless  thinking 
of  her.  But  she's  a  sensible  girl, 
with  no  confounded  nonsense 
about  her,  and  the  family  are 
as  poor  as  church  mice.  In 
fact — well,  to  tell  the  truth,  we 
have  become  most  excellent 
friends,  and  she  told  me  herself 
frankly  that  she  meant  to  marry 
a  rich  man,  and  didn't  much 
care  whom." 

"That  sounds  hopeful,"  re- 
marks the  would-be  bridegroom, 
with  his  peculiar  dry  smile. 
"When  shall  I  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  seeing  her?  " 

"  I  want  you  to  come  with  me 
to-night  to  the  Garden,"  replies 
the  other ;  "  she  will  be  in  Lady 
Heatherington's  box,  and  I  will 
introduce  you." 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.  35 

So  that  evening  John  Inger- 
field  .goes  to  Covent  Garden 
Theater,  with  the  blood  running 
a  trifle  quicker  in  his  veins,  but 
not  much,  than  would  be  the 
case  were  he  going  to  the  docks 
to  purchase  tallow — examines, 
covertly,  the  proposed  article 
from  the  opposite  side  of  the 
house,  and  approves  her — is 
introduced  to  her,  and,  on  closer 
inspection,  approves  her  still 
more  —  receives  an  invitation 
to  visit — visits  frequently,  and 
each  time  is  more  satisfied  of 
the  rarity,  serviceableness,  and 
quality  of  the  article. 

If  all  John  Ingerfield  requires 
for  a  wife  is  a  beautiful  social 
machine,  surely  here  he  has 
found  his  ideal.     Anne  Single- 


36        JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

ton,  only  daughter  of  that  per- 
sistently unfortunate  but  most 
charming  of  baronets,  Sir  Harry 
Singleton  (more  charming,  it  is 
rumored,  outside  his  family  cir- 
cle than  within  it),  is  a  stately, 
graceful,  highbred  woman.    Her 
portrait,  by  Reynolds,  still  to  be 
seen    above   the    carved  wains- 
coting of  one  of   the  old  City 
halls,  shows  a  wonderfully  hand- 
some and  clever  face,  but  at  the 
same   time  a  wonderfully   cold 
and    heartless   one.      It    is  the 
face    of   a   woman   half    weary 
of,  half  sneering  at  the  world. 
One  reads  in  old  family  letters, 
whereof   the    ink    is    now  very 
faded  and  the  paper  very  yellow, 
long  criticisms  of  this  portrait. 
The  writers  complain  that  if  the 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.         37 

picture  is  at  all  like  her  she 
must  have  greatly  changed  since 
her  girlhood,  for  they  remember 
her  then  as  having  a  laughing 
and  winsome  expression. 

They  say — they  who  knew 
her  in  after  life — that  this  earlier 
face  came  back  to  her  in  the 
end,  so  that  the  many  who  re- 
membered opening  their  eyes 
and  seeing  her  bending  down 
over  them  could  never  recognize 
the  portrait  of  the  beautiful 
sneering  lady,  even  when  they 
were  told  whom  it  represented. 

But  at  the  time  of  John  Inger- 
field's  strange  wooing  she  was 
the  Anne  Singleton  of  Sir 
Joshua's  portrait,  and  John 
Ingerfield  liked  her  the  better 
that  she  was. 


38        JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

He  had  no  feeling  of  senti- 
ment in  the  matter  himself,  and 
it  simplified  the  case  that  she 
had  none  either.  He  offered 
her  a  plain  bargain,  and  she 
accepted  it.  For  all  he  knew  or 
cared,  her  attitude  toward  this 
subject  of  marriage  was  the 
usual  one  assumed  by  women. 
Very  young  girls  had  their  heads 
full  of  romantic  ideas.  It  was 
better  for  her  and  for  him  that 
she  had  got  rid  of  them. 

"  Ours  will  be  a  union  founded 
on  good  sense,"  said  John  Inger- 
field. 

"  Let  us  hope  the  experiment 
will  succeed,"  said  Anne  Single- 
ton. 


CHAPTER  II. 

UT  the  experiment  does 
not  succeed.  The  laws 
of  God  decree  that  man 
shall  purchase  woman,  that 
woman  shall  give  herself  to 
man,  for  other  coin  than  that 
of  good  sense.  Good  sense  is 
not  a  legal  tender  in  the  mar- 
riage mart.  Men  and  women 
who  enter  therein  with  only 
sense  in  their  purse  have  no 
right  to  complain  if,  on  reach- 
ing home,  they  find  they  have 
concluded  an  unsatisfactory 
bargain. 


40        JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

John  Ingerfield,  when  he 
asked  Anne  Singleton  to  be  his 
wife,  felt  no  more  love  for  her 
than  he  felt  for  any  of  the 
other  sumptuous  household  ap- 
pointments he  was  purchasing 
about  the  same  time,  and  made 
no  pretense  of  doing  so.  Nor, 
had  he  done  so,  would  she  have 
believed  him  ;  for  Anne  Single- 
ton has  learned  much  in  her 
twenty-two  summers  and  win- 
ters, and  knows  that  love  is 
only  a  meteor  in  life's  sky,  and 
that  the  true  lodestar  of  this 
world  is  gold.  Anne  Singleton 
has  had  her  romance  and  buried 
it  deep  down  in  her  deep  na- 
ture, and  over  its  grave,  to  keep 
its  ghost  from  rising,  has  piled 
the  stones  of   indifference  and 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.         4 1 

contempt,  as  many  a  woman 
has  done  before  and  since. 
Once  upon  a  time  Anne  Single- 
ton sat  dreaming  out  a  story. 
It  was  a  story  old  as  the  hills — 
older  than  some  of  them — but 
to  her  then  it  was  quite  new 
and  very  wonderful.  It  con- 
tained all  the  usual  stock  ma- 
terial common  to  such  stories  : 
the  lad  and  the  lass,  the  plighted 
troth,  the  richer  suitors,  the 
angry  parents,  the  love  that 
was  worth  braving  all  the  world 
for.  One  day  into  this  dream 
there  fell  from  the  land  of  the 
waking  a  letter — a  poor,  pitiful 
letter.  "  You  know  I  love  you 
and  only  you,"  it  ran ;  "  my 
heart  will  always  be  yours  till  I 
die.     But  my   father  threatens 


42        JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

to  stop  my  allowance,  and,  as 
you  know,  I  have  nothing  of 
my  own  except  debts.  Some 
would  call  her  handsome,  but 
how  can  I  think  of  her  beside 
you  ?  Oh,  why  was  money  ever 
let  to  come  into  the  world  to 
curse  us?"  with  many  other 
puzzling  questions  of  a  like 
character,  and  much  severe 
condemnation  of  Fate  and 
Heaven  and  other  parties  gen- 
erally, and  much  self-commis- 
eration. 

Anne  Singleton  took  long  to 
read  the  letter.  When  she  had 
finished  it,  and  had  read  it 
through  again,  she  rose,  and, 
crushing  it  in  her  hand,  flung 
it  in  the  fire  with  a  laugh,  and 
as  the  flame  burnt  up  and  died 


JOHN-  INGERFIELD.         43 

away  felt  that  her  life  had  died 
with  it,  not  knowing  that 
bruised  hearts  can  heal. 

So  when  John  Ingerfield 
comes  wooing,  and  speaks  to 
her  no  word  of  love,  but  only  of 
money,  she  feels  that  here  at 
last  is  a  genuine  voice  that  she 
can  trust.  Love  of  the  lesser 
side  of  life  is  still  left  to  her. 
It  will  be  pleasant  to  be  the 
wealthy  mistress  of  a  fine  house, 
to  give  great  receptions,  to  ex- 
change the  secret  poverty  of 
home  for  display  and  luxury. 
These  things  are  offered  to  her 
on  the  very  terms  she  would 
have  suggested  herself.  Ac- 
companied by  love  she  would 
have  refused  them,  knowing 
she  could  give  none  in  return. 


44        JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

But  a  woman  finds  it  one 
thing  not  to  desire  affection  and 
another  thing  not  to  possess  it. 
Day  by  day  the  atmosphere  of 
the  fine  house  in  Bloomsbury 
grows  cold  and  colder  about  her 
heart.  Guests  warm  it  at  times 
for  a  few  hours,  then  depart, 
leaving  it  chillier  than  before. 

For  her  husband  she  attempts 
to  feel  indifference,  but  living 
creatures  joined  together  cannot 
feel  indifference  for  each  other. 
Even  two  dogs  in  a  leash  are 
compelled  to  think  of  one  an- 
other. A  man  and  wife  must 
love  or  hate,  like  or  dislike,  in 
degree  as  the  bond  connecting 
them  is  drawn  tight  or  allowed 
to  hang  slack.  By  mutual  de- 
sire   their    chains    of    wedlock 


JOHN  INGERFIKLD.         45 

have  been  fastened  as  loosely 
as  respect  for  security  will  per- 
mit,with  the  happy  consequence 
that  her  aversion  to  him  does 
not  obtrude  itself  beyond  the 
limits  of  politeness. 

Her  part  of  the  contract  she 
faithfully  fulfills,  for  the  Single- 
tons also  have  their  code  of 
honor.  Her  beauty,  her  tact, 
her  charm,  her  influence,  are 
devoted  to  his  service — to  the 
advancement  of  his  position,  the 
furtherance  of  his  ambition. 
Doors  that  would  otherwise  re- 
main closed  she  opens  to  him. 
Society  that  would  otherwise 
pass  by  with  a  sneer  sits  round 
his  table.  His  wishes  and  pleas- 
ures are  hers.  In  all  things 
she  yields  him  wifely  duty,  seeks 


46         JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

to  render  herself  agreeable  to 
him,  suffers  in  silence  his  occa- 
sional caresses.  Whatever  was 
implied  in  the  bargain,  that  she 
will  perform  to  the  letter. 

He,  on  his  side,  likewise  per- 
forms his  part  with  businesslike 
conscientiousness — nay,  seeing 
that  the  pleasing  of  her  brings 
no  personal  gratification  to  him- 
self, not  without  generosity. 
He  is  ever  thoughtful  of  and 
deferential  to  her,  awarding  her 
at  all  times  an  unvarying  cour- 
teousness  that  is  none  the  less 
sincere  for  being  studied.  Her 
every  expressed  want  is  grati- 
fied, her  every  known  distaste 
respected.  Conscious  of  his 
presence  being  an  oppression  to 
her,  he  is  even  careful   not  to 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.         47 

intrude  it  upon  her  oftenerthan 
is  necessary. 

At  times  he  asks  himself, 
somewhat  pertinently,  what  he 
has  gained  by  marriage — won- 
ders whether  this  social  race  was 
quite  the  most  interesting  game 
he  could  have  elected  to  occupy 
his  leisure — wonders  whether, 
after  all,  he  would  not  have  been 
happier  over  his  counting  house 
than  in  these  sumptuous,  glit- 
tering rooms,  where  he  always 
seems,  and  feels  himself  to  be, 
the  uninvited  guest. 

The  only  feeling  that  a  closer 
intimacy  has  created  in  him  for 
his  wife  is  that  of  indulgent 
contempt.  As  there  is  no 
equality  between  man  and 
woman,  so  there  can  be  no  re- 


4S        JOHN-  INGERFIELD. 

spect.  She  is  a  different  being. 
He  must  either  look  up  to  her 
as  superior  to  himself,  or  down 
upon  her  as  inferior.  When  a 
man  does  the  former  he  is  more 
or  less  in  love,  and  love  to  John 
Ingerfield  is  an  unknown  emo- 
tion. Her  beauty,  her  charm, 
her  social  tact — even  while  he 
makes  use  of  them  for  his 
own  purposes,  he  despises  as 
the  weapons  of  a  weak  nature. 

So  in  their  big,  cold  mansion 
John  Ingerfield  and  Anne,  his 
wife,  sit  far  apart,  strangers  to 
one  another,  neither  desiring  to 
know  the  other  nearer. 

About  his  business  he  never 
speaks  to  her,  and  she  never 
questions  him.  To  compensate 
for  the  slight  shrinkage  of  time 


JOHN'  TNGERFIELD.         49 

he  is  able  to  devote  to  it,  he 
becomes  more  strict  and  exact- 
ing ;  grows  a  harsher  master  to 
his  people,  a  sterner  creditor,  a 
greedier  dealer,  squeezing  the 
uttermost  out  of  everyone, 
feverish  to  grow  richer,  so  that 
he  may  spend  more  upon  the 
game  that  day  by  day  he  finds 
more  tiresome  and  uninter- 
esting. 

And  the  piled  up  casks  upon 
his  wharves  increase  and  mul- 
tiply ;  and  on  the  dirty  river  his 
ships  and  barges  lie  in  ever- 
lengthening  hues ;  and  round 
his  greasy  caldrons  sweating, 
witch-like  creatures  swarm  in 
ever-denser  numbers,  stirring  oil 
and  tallow  into  gold. 

Until    one    summer,  from  its 


50        JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

nest  in  the  far  East,  there  flut- 
ters westward  a  foul  thing. 
Hovering  over  Limehouse  sub- 
urb, seeing:  it  crowded  and 
unclean,  liking  its  fetid  smell, 
it  settles  down  upon  it. 

Typhus  is  the  creature's  name. 
At  first  it  lurks  there  unnoticed, 
battening  upon  the  rich,  rank 
food  it  finds  around  it,  until, 
grown  too  big  to  hide  longer,  it 
boldly  shows  its  hideous  head, 
and  the  white  face  of  Terror 
runs  swiftly  through  alley  and 
street,  crying  as  it  runs,  forces 
itself  into  John  Ingerfield's 
counting  house,  and  tells  its 
tale. 

John  Ingcrficld  sits  for  a 
while  thinking.  Then  he  mounts 
his  horse  and  rides  home  at  as 


^  He />asses  her,  e^ivim;  her  a  %uide  berth'''' 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.         $\ 

hard  a  pace  as  the  condition  of 
the  streets  will  allow.  In  the 
hall  he  meets  Anne  going  out, 
and  stops  her. 

"  Don't  come  too  near  me," 
he  says  quietly.  "  Typhus  fever 
has  broken  out  at  Limehouse, 
and  they  say  one  can  communi- 
cate it,  even  without  having  it 
oneself.  You  had  better  leave 
London  for  a  few  weeks.  Go 
down  to  your  father's  ;  I  will 
come  and  fetch  you  when  it  is 
all  over." 

He  passes  her,  giving  her  a 
wide  berth,  and  goes  upstairs, 
where  he  remains  for  some 
minutes  in  conversation  with  his 
valet.  Then,  coming  down,  he 
remounts  and  rides  off  again. 

After  a  little  while  Anne  goes 


52         JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

up  into  his  room.  His  man  is 
kneeling  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor,  packing  a  valise. 

"  Where  are  you  to  take  it  ?  " 
she  asks. 

*'  Down  to  the  wharf,  ma'am," 
answers  the  man.  *'  Mr.  Inger- 
field  is  going  to  be  there  for  a 
day  or  two." 

Then  Anne  sits  in  the  great 
empty  drawing  room,  and  takes 
her  turn  at  thinking. 

John  Ingerfield  finds  on  his 
return  to  Limehouse  that  the 
evil  has  greatly  increased  during 
the  short  time  he  has  been 
away.  Fanned  by  fear  and 
ignorance,  fed  by  poverty  and 
dirt,  the  scourge  is  spreading 
through  the  district  like  a  fire. 
Long   smoldering   in  secret,  it 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.         53 

has  now  burst  forth  at  fifty 
different  points  at  once.  Not 
a  street,  not  a  court  but  has  its 
*'case."  Overa  dozen  of  John's 
hands  are  down  with  it  already. 
Two  more  have  sunk  prostrate 
beside  their  work  within  the  last 
hour.  The  panic  grows  gro- 
tesque. Men  and  women  tear 
their  clothes  off,  looking  to  see  if 
they  have  anywhere  upon  them 
a  rash  or  a  patch  of  mottled 
skin,  find  that  they  have,  or 
imagine  that  they  have,  and 
rush,  screaming,  half  undressed, 
into  the  street.  Two  men 
meeting  in  a  narrow  passage, 
both  rush  back,  too  frightened 
to  pass  each  other.  A  boy 
stoops  down  and  scratches  his 
leg — not  an  action  that  under 


54         JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

ordinary  circumstances  would 
excite  much  surprise  in  that 
neighborhood.  In  an  instant 
there  is  a  wild  stampede  from 
the  room,  the  strong  trampling 
on  the  weak  in  their  eagerness 
to  escape. 

These  are  not  the  days  of 
organized  defense  against  dis 
ease.  There  are  kind  hearts 
and  willing  hands  in  London 
town,  but  they  are  not  yet 
closely  enough  banded  together 
to  meet  a  swift  foe  such  as  this. 
There  are  hospitals  and  charities 
galore,  but  these  are  mostly  in 
the  City,  maintained  by  the 
City  fathers  for  the  exclusive 
benefit  of  poor  citizens  and 
members  of  the  guilds.  The 
few  free  hospitals  are  already 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.  55 

overcrowded  and  ill  prepared. 
Squalid,  out-lying  Limehousc, 
belonging  to  nowhere,  cared 
for  by  nobody,  must  fight  for 
itself, 

John  Ingerfield  calls  the  older 
men  together,  and  with  their 
help  attempts  to  instill  some 
sense  and  reason  into  his  terri- 
fied people.  Standing  on  the 
step  of  his  counting  house,  and 
addressing  as  many  of  them  as 
are  not  too  scared  to  listen,  he 
tells  them  of  the  danger  of  fear 
and  of  the  necessity  for  calmness 
and  courage. 

"  We  must  face  and  fight  this 
thing  like  men,"  he  cries  in  that 
deep,  din-conquering  voice  that 
has  served  the  Ingerfields  in 
good  stead    on    many   a   steel- 


56        JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

swept  field,  on  many  a  storm- 
struck  sea ;  "  there  must  be  no 
cowardly  selfishness,  no  faint- 
hearted despair.  If  we've  got 
to  die  we'll  die  ;  but  please  God 
we'll  live.  Anyhow,  we  will 
stick  together,  and  help  each 
other.  I  mean  to  stop  here 
with  you,  and  do  what  I  can  for 
you.  None  of  my  people  shall 
want." 

John  Ingerfield  ceases,  and 
as  the  vibrations  of  his  strong 
tones  roll  away  a  sweet  voice 
from  beside  him  rises  clear  and 
firm : 

"  I  have  come  down  to  be 
with  you  also,  and  to  help  my 
husband.  I  shall  take  charge 
of  the  nursing  and  tending  of 
your  sick,  aivd  I  hope  I  shall  be 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.         57 

of  some  real  use  to  you.  My 
husband  and  I  are  so  sorry  for 
you  in  your  trouble.  I  know 
you  will  be  brave  and  patient. 
We  will  all  do  our  best,  and  be 
hopeful." 

He  turns,  half  expecting  to 
see  only  the  empty  air  and  to 
wonder  at  the  delirium  in  his 
brain.  She  puts  her  hand  in 
his,  and  their  eyes  meet ;  and 
in  that  moment,  for  the  first 
time  in  their  lives,  these  two 
see  one  another. 

They  speak  no  word.  There 
is  no  opportunity  for  words. 
There  is  work  to  be  done,  and 
done  quickly,  and  Anne  grasps 
it  with  the  greed  of  a  woman 
long  hungry  for  the  joy  of  do- 
ing.     As    John     watches    her 


58        JOHM  INGERFIELD. 

moving  swiftly  and  quietly 
through  the  bewildered  throng, 
questioning,  comforting,  gently 
compelling,  the  thought  comes 
to  him.  Ought  he  to  allow  her 
to  be  here,  risking  her  life  for 
his  people  ?  followed  by  the 
thought.  How  is  he  going  to 
prevent  it?  For  in  this  hour 
the  knowledge  is  born  within 
him  that  Anne  is  not  his  prop- 
erty ;  that  he  and  she  are 
fellow  hands  taking  their  orders 
from  the  same  Master ;  that 
though  it  be  well  for  them  to 
work  together  and  help  each 
other,  they  must  not  hinder 
one  another. 

As  yet  John  does  not  under- 
stand all  this.  The  idea  is 
new  and  strange   to  him.     He 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.         59 

feels  as  the  child  in  a  fairy 
story  on  suddenly  discovering 
that  the  trees  and  flowers  he 
has  passed  by  carelessly  a 
thousand  times  can  think  and 
talk.  Once  he  whispers  to 
her  of  the  labor  and  the  dan- 
ger, but  she  answers  simply, 
"  They  are  my  people  too, 
John  ;  it  is  my  work  "  ;  and  he 
lets  her  have  her  way. 

Anne  has  a  true  woman's 
instinct  for  nursing,  and  her 
strong  sense  stands  her  instead 
of  experience.  A  glance  into 
one  or  two  of  the  squalid  dens 
where  these  people  live  tells 
her  that  if  her  patients  are  to 
be  saved  they  must  be  nursed 
away  from  their  own  homes  ; 
and  she  determines  to  convert 


6o        JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

the  large  counting  house — a 
long,  lofty  room  at  the  oppo- 
site end  of  the  wharf  to  the 
refinery  —  into  a  temporary 
hospital.  Selecting  some  seven 
or  eight  of  the  most  reliable 
women  to  assist  her,  she  pro- 
ceeds to  prepare  it  for  its  pur- 
pose. Ledgers  might  be  vol- 
umes of  poetry,  bills  of  lading 
mere  street  ballads,  for  all  the 
respect  that  is  shown  to  them. 
The  older  clerks  stand  staring 
aghast,  feeling  that  the  end  of 
all  things  is  surely  at  hand,  and 
that  the  universe  is  rushing 
down  into  space,  until,  their 
idleness  being  detected,  they 
are  themselves  promptly  im- 
pressed for  the  sacrilegious 
work,    and    made    to    assist    in 


JOHN  INGERFJELD.         6 1 

the   demolition    of    their    own 
temple. 

Anne's  commands  are  spoken 
very  sweetly,  and  are  accom- 
panied by  the  sweetest  of 
smiles;  but  they  are  neverthe- 
less commands,  and  somehow 
it  does  not  occur  to  anyone  to 
disobey  them.  John — stern, 
masterful,  authoritative  John, 
who  has  never  been  approached 
with  anything  more  dictatorial 
than  a  timid  request  since  he 
left  Merchant  Taylor's  School 
nineteen  years  ago,  who  would 
have  thought  that  something 
had  suddenly  gone  wrong  with 
the  laws  of  nature  if  he  had 
been — finds  himself  hurrying 
along  the  street  on  his  way  to  a 
druggist's    shop,    slackens    his 


^2         JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

pace  an  instant  to  ask  himself 
why  and  wherefore  he  is  doing 
so,  recollects  that  he  was  told 
to  do  so  and  to  make  haste 
back,  marvels  who  could  have 
dared  to  tell  him  to  do  any- 
thing and  to  make  haste  back, 
remembers  that  it  was  Anne, 
is  not  quite  sure  what  to  think 
about  it,  but  hurries  on. 

He  "makes  haste  back,"  is 
praised  for  having  been  so 
quick,  and  feels  pleased  with 
himself;  is  sent  off  again  in 
another  direction,  with  instruc- 
tions what  to  say  when  he  gets 
there.  He  starts  off  (he  is 
becoming  used  to  being  ordered 
about  now).  Halfway  there 
great  alarm  seizes  him,  for  on 
attempting  to  say  over  the  mes- 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.         6j 

sage  to  himself,  to  be  sure  that 
he  has  it  quite  right,  he  dis- 
covers he  has  forgotten  it.  He 
pauses,  nervous  and  excited  ; 
cogitates  as  to  whether  it  will 
be  safe  for  him  to  concoct 
a  message  of  his  own,  weighs 
anxiously  the  chances — suppos- 
ing that  he  does  so — of  being 
found  out.  Suddenly,  to  his 
intense  surprise  and  relief,  every 
word  of  what  he  was  told  to 
say  comes  back  to  him ;  and 
he  hastens  on,  repeating  it  over 
and  over  to  himself  as  he  walks 
lest  it  should  escape  him 
again. 

And  then  a  few  hundred 
yards  farther  on  there  occurs 
one  of  the  most  extraordinary 
events  that  has  ever  happened 


^4        JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

in  that  street  before  or  since  : 
John  Ingerfield  laughs. 

John  Ingerfield  of  Lavender 
Wharf,  after  walking  two-thirds 
of  Creek  Lane,  muttering  to 
himself  with  his  eyes  on  the 
gound,  stops  in  the  middle  of 
the  road  and  laughs ;  and  one 
small  boy,  who  tells  the  story 
to  his  dying  day,  sees  him  and 
hears  him,  and  runs  home  at 
the  top  of  his  speed  with  the 
wonderful  news,  and  is  consci- 
entiously slapped  by  his  mother 
for  telling  lies. 

All  that  day  Anne  works  like 
a  heroine,  John  helping  her,  and 
occasionally  getting  in  the  way. 
By  night  she  has  her  little 
hospital  prepared  and  three 
beds  already  up  and  occupied  ; 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.  65 

and,  all  now  done  that  can  be 
done,  she  and  John  go  upstairs 
to  his  old  rooms  above  the 
counting  house. 

John  ushers  her  into  them 
with  some  misgiving,  for  by 
contrast  with  the  house  at 
Bloomsbury  they  are  poor  and 
shabby.  He  places  her  in  the 
armchair  near  the  fire,  begging 
her  to  rest  quiet, and  then  assists 
his  old  housekeeper,  whose  wits, 
never  of  the  strongest,  have 
been  scared  by  the  day's  pro- 
ceedings, to  lay  the  meal. 

Anne's  eyes  follow  him  as  he 
moves  about  the  room.  Perhaps 
here,  where  all  the  real  part  of 
his  life  has  been  passed,  he  is 
more  his  true  self  than  amid 
the  unfamiliar  surroundings  of 


66        JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

fashion ;  perhaps  this  simpler 
frame  shows  him  to  greater 
advantage  ;  but  Anne  wonders 
how  it  is  she  has  never  noticed 
before  that  he  is  a  well-set, 
handsome  man.  Nor,  indeed, 
is  he  so  very  old  looking.  Is 
it  a  trick  of  the  dim  light,  or 
what  ?  He  looks  almost  young. 
But  why  should  he  not  look 
young,  seeing  he  is  only  thirty- 
six,  and  at  thirty-six  a  man  is 
in  his  prime  ?  Anne  wonders 
why  she  has  always  thought 
of  him  as  an  elderly  person. 

A  portrait  of  one  of  John's 
ancestors  hangs  over  the  great 
mantelpiece  —  of  that  sturdy 
Captain  Ingerfield  who  fought 
the  king's  frigate  rather  than 
give    up   one    of     his     people. 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.         67 

Anne  glances  from  the  dead 
face  to  the  living  and  notes  the 
strong  likeness  between  them. 
Through  her  half-closed  eyes 
she  sees  the  grim  old  captain 
hurling  back  his  message  of 
defiance,  and  his  face  is  the  face 
she  saw  a  few  hours  ago,  saying, 
"  I  mean  to  stop  here  with  you 
and  do  what  I  can  for  you. 
None  of  my  people  shall  want." 
John  is  placing  a  chair  for 
her  at  the  table,  and  the  light 
from  the  candles  falls  upon  him. 
She  steals  another  glance  at  his 
face — a  strong,  stern,  handsome 
face,  capable  of  becoming  a 
noble  face.  Anne  wonders  if  it 
has  ever  looked  down  tenderly 
at  anyone  ;  feels  a  sudden  fierce 
pain  at  the  thought ;   dismisses 


68        JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

the  thought  as  impossible ; 
wonders,  nevertheless,  how  ten- 
derness would  suit  it ;  thinks 
she  would  like  to  see  a  look 
of  tenderness  upon  it,  simply 
out  of  curiosity;  wonders  if 
she  ever  will. 

She  rouses  herself  from  her 
reverie  as  John,  with  a  smile, 
tells  her  supper  is  ready,  and 
they  seat  themselves  opposite 
each  other,  an  odd  air  of  em- 
barrassment pervading. 

Day  by  day  their  work  grows 
harder ;  day  by  day  the  foe 
grows  stronger,  fiercer,  more 
all-conquering  ;  and  day  by  day, 
fighting  side  by  side  against  it, 
John  Ingerfield  and  Anne,  his 
wife,  draw  closer  to  each  other. 
On  the  battle-field    of    life    we 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.         69 

learn  the  worth  of  strength. 
Anne  feels  it  good  when  grow- 
ing weary  to  glance  up  and  find 
him  near  her;  feels  it  good, 
amid  the  troubled  babel  round 
her,  to  hear  the  deep,  strong 
music  of  his  voice. 

And  John,  watching  Anne's 
fair  figure  moving  to  and  fro 
among  the  stricken  and  the 
mourning;  watching  her  fair, 
fluttering  hands,  busy  with  their 
holy  work,  her  deep,  soul-haunt- 
ing eyes,  changeful  with  the 
light  and  shade  of  tenderness  ; 
listening  to  her  sweet,  clear 
voice,  laughing  with  the  joyous, 
comforting  the  comfortless, 
gently  commanding,  softly 
pleading,  finds  creeping  into  his 
brain    strange     new     thoughts 


70         JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

concerning  women  —  concern- 
ing this  one  woman  in  par- 
ticular. 

One  day,  rummaging  over  an 
old  chest,  he  comes  across  a 
colored  picture-book  of  Bible 
stories.  He  turns  the  torn  pages 
fondly,  remembering  the  Sunday 
afternoons  of  long  ago.  At  one 
picture,  wherein  are  represented 
many  angels,  he  pauses ;  for  in 
one  of  the  younger  angels  of  the 
group — one  not  quite  so  severe 
of  feature  as  her  sisters  —  he 
fancies  he  can  trace  resemblance 
to  Anne.  He  lingers  long  over  it. 
Suddenly  there  rushes  through 
his  brain  the  thought,  how  good 
to  stoop  and  kiss  the  sweet  feet 
of  such  a  woman !  and,  think- 
ing it,  he  blushes  like  a  boy. 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.         71 

So  from  the  soil  of  human 
suffering  spring  the  flowers  of 
human  love  and  joy,  and  from 
the  flowers  there  fall  the  seeds 
of  infinite  pity  for  human  pain, 
God  shaping  all  things  to  his 
ends. 

Thinking  of  Anne,  John's  face 
grows  gentler,  his  hand  kinder  ; 
dreaming  of  him,  her  heart 
grows  stronger,  deeper,  fuller. 
Every  available  room  in  the 
warehouse  has  been  turned  into 
a  ward,  and  the  little  hospital  is 
open  free  to  all,  for  John  and 
Anne  feel  that  the  whole  world 
are  their  people.  The  piled  up 
casks  are  gone  —  shipped  to 
Woolwich  and  Gravesend,  bun- 
dled anywhere  out  of  the  way, 
as  though  oil   and   tallow   and 


72         JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

the  gold  they  can  be  stirred  into 
were  matters  of  small  moment 
in  this  world,  not  to  be  thought 
of  beside  such  a  thing  as  the 
helping  of  a  human  brother  in 
sore  strait. 

All  the  labor  of  the  day 
seems  light  to  them,  looking 
forward  to  the  hour  when  they 
sit  together  in  John's  old 
shabby  dining  room  above  the 
counting  house.  Yet  a  looker- 
on  might  imagine  such  times 
dull  to  them ;  for  they  are 
strangely  shy  of  one  another, 
strangely  sparing  of  words — 
fearful  of  opening  the  flood- 
gates of  speech,  feeling  the 
pressure  of  the  pent-up  thought. 

One  evening  John,  throwing 
out  words,  not  as  a  sop  to  the 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.  73 

necessity  for  talk,  but  as  a  bait 
to  catch  Anne's  voice,  mentions 
girdle-cakes,  remembers  that  his 
old  housekeeper  used  to  be 
famous  for  the  making  of  them, 
and  wonders  if  she  has  for- 
gotten the  art. 

Anne,  answering  tremulously, 
as  though   girdle-cakes  were  a 
somewhat  delicate  topic,  claims 
to  be  a  successful  amateur  of 
them    herself.      John,    having 
been    given    always   to    under- 
stand that  the  talent  for  them 
was  exceedingly  rare,  and  one 
usually  hereditary,  respectfully 
doubts  Anne's  capabilities,  def- 
erentially suggesting  that  she  is 
thinking  of   scones.     Anne  in- 
dignantly  repudiates  the  insin- 
uation,   knows   quite   well   the 


74        JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

difference  between  girdle-cakes 
and  scones,  offers  to  prove  her 
powers  by  descending  into  the 
kitchen  and  making  some  then 
and  there  if  John  will  accom- 
pany her  and  find  the  things 
for  her. 

John  accepts  the  challenge, 
and,  guiding  Anne  with  one 
shy,  awkward  hand,  while  hold- 
ing aloft  a  candle  in  the  other, 
leads  the  way.  It  is  past  ten 
o'clock,  and  the  old  house- 
keeper is  in  bed.  At  each 
creaking  stair  they  pause,  to 
listen  if  the  noise  has  awakened 
her;  then,  finding  all  silent, 
creep  forward  again,  with  sup- 
pressed laughter,  wondering 
with  alarm,  half  feigned,  half 
real,  what  the  prim,  methodical 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.  75 

dame   would    say  were  she  to 
come  down  and  catch  them. 

They  reach  the  kitchen, 
thanks  more  to  the  suggestions 
of  a  friendly  cat  than  to  John's 
acquaintanceship  with  the  geog- 
raphy of  his  own  house ;  and 
Anne  rakes  together  the  fire 
and  clears  the  table  for  her 
work.  What  possible  use  John 
is  to  her — what  need  there  was 
for  her  stipulating  that  he 
should  accompany  her,  Anne 
might  find  it  difficult,  if  exam- 
ined, to  explain  satisfactorily. 
As  for  his  "  finding  the  things  " 
for  her,  he  has  not  the  faintest 
notion  where  they  are,  and  pos- 
sesses no  natural  aptitude  for 
discovery.  Told  to  find  flour, 
he  industriously  searches  for  it 


76        JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

in  the  dresser  drawers  ;  sent  for 
the  rolling-pin — the  nature  and 
characteristics  of  rolling-pins 
being  described  to  him  for  his 
guidance — he  returns,  after  a 
prolonged  absence,  with  the 
copper  stick.  Anne  laughs  at 
him  ;  but  really  it  would  seem 
as  though  she  herself  were 
almost  as  stupid,  for  not  until 
her  hands  are  covered  with 
flour  does  it  occur  to  her  that 
she  has  not  taken  that  prelimi- 
nary step  in  all  cooking  opera- 
tions of  rolling  up  her  sleeves. 

She  holds  out  her  arms  to 
John,  first  one  and  then  the 
other,  asking  him  sweetly  if  he 
minds  doing  it  for  her.  John 
is  very  slow  and  clumsy,  but 
Anne  stands  very  patient.     Inch 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.  77 

by  inch  he  peels  the  black 
sleeve  from  the  white  round 
arm.  Hundreds  of  times  must 
he  have  seen  those  fair  arms, 
bare  to  the  shoulder,  sparkling 
with  jewels ;  but  never  before 
has  he  seen  their  wondrous 
beauty.  He  longs  to  clasp  them 
round  his  neck,  yet  is  fearful 
lest  his  trembling  fingers  touch- 
ing them  as  he  performs  his 
tantalizing  task  may  offend 
her. 

Anne  thanks  him,  and  apolo- 
gizes for  having  given  him  so 
much  trouble,  and  he  murmurs 
some  meaningless  reply,  and 
stands  foolishly  silent,  watching 
her.  Anne  seems  to  find  one 
hand  sufficient  for  her  cake 
making,  for  the  other  rests  idly 


78        JOH!^  INGERFTELD. 

on  the  table — very  near  to  one 
of  John's,  as  she  would  see  were 
not  her  eyes  so  intent  upon  her 
work.  How  the' impulse  came 
to  him,  where  he — grave,  sober, 
business  man  John  —  learned 
such  story-book  ways  can  never 
be  known  ;  but  in  one  instant 
he  is  down  on  both  knees, 
smothering  the  floury  hand  with 
kisses,  and  the  next  moment 
Anne's  arms  are  round  his  neck 
and  her  lips  against  his,  and  the 
barrier  between  them  is  swept 
away,  and  the  deep  waters  of 
their  love  rush  together. 

With  that  kiss  they  enter  a 
new  life  whereinto  one  may  not 
follow  them.  One  thinks  it 
must  have  been  a  life  made 
strangely   beautiful    by  self-for- 


'^  Grave,  sober,  business  man  John^ 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.  19 

getfulness,  strangely  sweet  by- 
mutual  devotion — a  life  too 
ideal,  perhaps,  to  have  remained 
for  long  undimmed  by  the  mists 
of  earth. 

They  who  remember  them  at 
that  time  speak  of  them  in 
hushed  tones,  as  one  speaks  of 
visions.  It  would  almost  seem 
as  though  from  their  faces  in 
those  days  there  shone  a  radi- 
ance, as  though  in  their  voices 
dwelt  a  tenderness  beyond  the 
tenderness  of  man. 

They  seemed  never  to  rest, 
never  to  weary.  Day  and  night 
through  that  little  stricken  world 
they  come  and  go,  bearing 
healing  and  peace,  till  at  last 
the  plague,  like  some  gorged 
beast     of   prey,    slinks    slowly 


8o        JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

back  toward  its  lair,  and  men 
raise  their  heads  and  breathe. 

One  afternoon,  returning  from 
a  somewhat  longer  round  than 
usual,  John  feels  a  weariness 
creeping  into  his  limbs,  and 
quickens  his  step,  eager  to  reach 
home  and  rest.  Anne,  who  has 
been  up  all  the  previous  night, 
is  asleep,  and  not  wishing  to 
disturb  her,  he  goes  into  the 
dining  room  and  sits  down  in 
the  easy-chair  before  the  fire. 
The  room  strikes  cold.  He 
stirs  the  logs,  but  they  give  out 
no  greater  heat.  He  draws  his 
chair  right  in  front  of  them,  and 
sits  leaning  over  them  with  his 
feet  on  the  hearth  and  his  hands 
outstretched  toward  the  blaze ; 
yet  he  still  shivers. 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.  8r 

Twilight  fills  the  room  and 
deepens  into  dusk.  He  wonders 
listlessly  how  it  is  that  Time 
seems  to  be  moving  with  such 
swift  strides.  After  a  while  he 
hears  a  voice  close  to  him, 
speaking  in  a  slow,  monotonous 
tone — a  voice  curiously  familiar 
to  him,  though  he  cannot  tell  to 
whom  it  belongs.  He  does  not 
turn  his  head,  but  sits  listening 
to  it  drowsily.  It  is  talking 
about  tallow:  194  casks  of  tal- 
low, and  they  must  all  stand  one 
inside  the  other.  It  cannot  be 
done,  the  voice  complains  pa- 
thetically. They  will  not  go 
inside  each  other.  It  is  no  good 
pushing  them.  See  !  they  only 
roll  out  again. 

The  voice  grows  wearily  fret- 


82         JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

ful.  Oh !  why  do  they  persist 
when  they  see  it  is  impossible  ? 
What  fools  they  all  are  ! 

Suddenly  he  recollects  the 
voice,  and  starts  up  and  stares 
wildly  about  him,  trying  to  re- 
member where  he  is.  With  a 
fierce  straining  of  his  will  he 
grips  the  brain  that  is  slipping 
away  from  him,  and  holds  it. 
As  soon  as  he  feels  sure  of  him- 
self he  steals  out  of  the  room 
and  down  the  stairs. 

In  the  hall  he  stands  listen- 
ing ;  the  house  is  very  silent. 
He  goes  to  the  head  of  the 
stairs  leading  to  the  kitchen  and 
calls  softly  to  the  old  house- 
keeper, and  she  comes  up  to 
him,  panting  and  grunting  as 
she  climbs  each  step.    Keeping 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.         85 

some  distance  from  her,  he  asks 
in  a  whisper  where  Anne  is. 
The  woman  answers  that  she  is 
in  the  hospital. 

"  Tell  her  I  have  been  called 
away  suddenly  on  business,"  he 
says,  speaking  in  quick,  low 
tones.  "  I  shall  be  away  for 
some  days.  Tell  her  to  leave 
here  and  return  home  imme- 
diately. They  can  do  without 
her  here  now.  Tell  her  to  go 
back  home  at  once.  I  will  join 
her  there." 

He  moves  toward  the  door, 
but  stops  and  faces  round 
again. 

*'  Tell  her  I  beg  and  entreat 
her  not  to  stop  in  this  place  an 
hour  longer.  There  is  nothing 
to  keep  her  now.     It  is  all  oven 


84        JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

there  is  nothing  that  cannot  be 
done  by  anyone.  Tell  her  she 
must  go  home — this  very  night. 
Tell  her  if  she  loves  me  to  leave 
this  place  at  once." 

The  woman,  a  little  be- 
wildered by  his  vehemence, 
promises,  and  disappears  down 
the  stairs.  He  takes  his  hat 
and  cloak  from  the  chair  on 
which  he  had  thrown  them, 
and  turns  once  more  to  cross 
the  hall.  As  he  does  so  the 
door  opens  and  Anne  enters. 

He  darts  back  into  the 
shadow,  squeezing  himself 
against  the  wall.  Anne  calls  to 
him  laughingly,  then,  as  he 
docs  not  answer,  with  a  fright- 
ened accent  : 

"John — John     dear.      Was 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.         85 

not   that   you  ?     Are    not   you 
there  ?  " 

He  holds  his  breath,  and 
crouches  still  closer  into  the 
dark  corner  ;  and  Anne,  think- 
ing she  must  have  been  mis- 
taken in  the  dim  light,  passes 
him  and  goes  upstairs. 

Then  he  creeps  stealthily  to 
the  door,  lets  himself  out,  and 
closes  it  softly  behind  him. 

After  the  lapse  of  a  few 
minutes  the  old  housekeeper 
plods  upstairs  and  delivers 
John's  message.  Anne,  find- 
ing it  altogether  incompre- 
hensible, subjects  the  poor 
dame  to  severe  examination, 
but  fails  to  elicit  anything 
further.  What  is  the  meaning 
of  it  ?     What  "  business  "   can 


86        JOHN  INGERIIELD. 

have  compelled  John,  who  for 
ten  weeks  has  never  let  the 
word  escape  his  lips,  to  leave 
her  like  this — without  a  word  ! 
without  a  kiss !  Then  suddenly 
she  remembers  the  incident  of 
a  few  moments  ago,  when  she 
had  called  to  him,  thinking  she 
saw  him,  and  he  did  not  an- 
swer ;  and  the  whole  truth 
strikes  her  full  in  the  heart. 

She  refastens  the  bonnet 
strings  she  has  been  slowly  un- 
tying, and  goes  down  and  out 
into  the  wet  street. 

She  makes  her  way  rapidly 
to  the  house  of  the  only  doctor 
resident  in  the  neighborhood — 
a  big,  brusque-mannered  man, 
who  throughout  these  terrible 
two  months  has  been  their  chief 


JOHlSr  INGERFIELD.         87 

Stay  and  help.  He  meets  her 
on  her  entrance  with  an  embar- 
rassed air  that  tells  its  own 
tale,  and  at  once  renders  futile 
his  clumsy  attempts  at  acting  : 

How  should  he  know  where 
John  is?  Who  told  her  John 
had  the  fever — a  great,  strong, 
hulking  fellow  like  that  ?  She 
has  been  working  too  hard,  and 
has  got  fever  on  the  brain. 
She  must  go  straight  back 
home,  or  she  will  be  having  it 
herself.  She  is  more  likely  to 
take  it  than  John. 

Anne,  waiting  till  he  has 
finished  jerking  out  sentences 
while  stamping  up  and  down 
the  room,  says  gently,  taking 
no  notice  of  his  denials. 

"  If  you  will  not  tell   me   I 


88        JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

must  find  out  from  someone 
else — that  is  all."  Then,  her 
quick  eyes  noting  his  momen- 
tary hesitation,  she  lays  her 
little  hand  on  his  rough  paw, 
and,  with  the  shamelessness  of 
a  woman  who  loves  deeply, 
wheedles  everything  out  of  him 
that  he  has  promised  to  keep 
secret. 

He  stops  her,  however,  as  she 
is  leaving  the  room.  "  Don't  go 
into  him  now,"  he  says;  "he 
will  worry  about  you.  Wait  till 
to-morrow." 

So,  while  John  lies  counting 
endless  casks  of  tallow,  Anne 
sits  by  his  side,  tending  her  last 
"  case." 

Often  in  his  delirium  he  calls 
her   name,   and    she   takes  his 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.         8^ 

fevered  hand  in  hers  and  holds 
it,  and  he  falls  asleep. 

Each  morning  the  doctor 
comes  and  looks  at  him,  asks  a 
few  questions  and  gives  a  few 
commonplace  directions,  but 
makes  no  comment.  It  would 
be  idle  his  attempting  to 
deceive  her. 

The  days  move  slowly  through 
the  darkened  room.  Anne 
watches  his  thin  hands  grow 
thinner,  his  sunken  eyes  grow 
bigger,  yet  remains  strangely 
calm,  almost  contented. 

Very  near  the  end  there 
comes  an  hour  when  John 
wakes  as  from  a  dream,  and 
remembers   all   things    clearly. 

He  looks  at  her  half  grate- 
fully, half  reproachfully. 


90        JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

"Anne,  why  are  you  here?" 
he  asks  in  a  low,  labored  voice. 
"  Did  they  not  give  you  my 
message  ?  " 

For  answer  she  turns  her  deep 
eyes  upon  him. 

"  Would  you  have  gone  away 
and  left  me  here  to  die  ?  "  she 
questions  him,  with  a  faint 
smile. 

She  bends  her  head  down 
nearer  to  him,  so  that  her  soft 
hair  falls  about  his  face. 

"  Our  lives  were  one,  dear," 
she  whispers  to  him.  "  I  could 
not  have  lived  without  you ; 
God  knew  that.  We  shall  be 
together  always." 

She  kisses  him,  and  laying  his 
head  upon  her  breast,  softly 
strokes  it  as  she  might  a  child's; 


JOHN  INGERFIELD.         9 1 

and  he  puts  his  weak  arms 
around  her. 

Later  on  she  feels  them  grow- 
ing cold  about  her,  and  lays  him 
gently  back  upon  the  bed,  looks 
for  the  last  time  into  his  eyes, 
then  draws  the  lids  down  over 
them. 

His  people  ask  that  they  may 
bury  him  in  the  churchyard 
hard  by,  so  that  he  may  always 
be  among  them ;  and,  Anne 
consenting,  they  do  all  things 
needful  with  their  own  hands, 
wishful  that  no  unloving  labor 
may  be  mingled  with  their 
work.  They  lay  him  close  to 
the  porch,  where,  going  in  and 
out  the  church,  their  feet  will 
pass  near  to  him;  and  one 
among   them    who    is    cunning 


92         JOHN  INGERFIELD. 

with  the  graver's  chisel  shapes 
the  stone. 

At  the  head  he  carves  in 
bas-rehef  the  figure  of  the  good 
Samaritan  tending  the  brother 
fallen  by  the  way,  and  under- 
neath the  letters,  "  In  Remem- 
brance of  John  Ingerfield." 

He   thinks  to  put  a  verse  oL 
Scripture     immediately     after ; 
but  the  gruff  doctor  says,  "  Bet- 
ter  leave  a  space,  in  case  you 
want  to  add  another  name." 

So  the  stone  remains  a  little 
while  unfinished  ;  till  the  same 
hand  carves  thereon,  a  few 
weeks  later,  "And  of  Anne,  his 
Wife." 


II. 

THE  WOMAN  OF  THE 
Sy^TER. 


THE  WOMAN  OF  THE 
S/ETER. 

I  L  D-R  E  I  N  D  E  E  R 

stalking  is  hardly  so 
exciting  a  sport  as  the 
evening's  veranda  talk  in  Norro- 
way  hotels  would  lead  the  trust- 
ful traveler  to  suppose.  Under 
the  charge  of  your  guide,  a  very 
young  man  with  the  dreamy, 
wistful  eyes  of  those  who  live 
in  valleys,  you  leave  the  farm- 
stead early  in  the  forenoon, 
arriving  toward  twilight  at  the 
desolate  hut  which,  for  so  long 
as   you    remain    upon   the    up- 

95 


96       WOMAN  OF  THE  S^TER. 

lands,  will  be  your  somewhat 
cheerless  headquarters. 

Next  morning,  in  the  chill, 
mist-laden  dawn,  you  rise  ;  and, 
after  a  breakfast  of  coffeje  and 
dried  fish,  shoulder  your  Rem- 
ington, and  step  forth  silently 
into  the  raw,  damp  air,  the 
guide  locking  the  door  behind 
you,  the  key  grating  harshly  in 
the  rusty  lock. 

For  hour  after  hour  you  toil 
over  the  steep,  stony  ground,  or 
wind  through  the  pines,  speak- 
ing in  whispers,  lest  your  voice 
reach  the  quick  ears  of  your 
prey,  that  keeps  its  head  ever 
pressed  against  the  wind. 
Here  and  there,  in  the  hollows 
of  the  hills,  lie  wide  fields  of 
snow,  over  which  }'ou  pick  your 


WOMAN  OF  THE  S^TER.      97 

steps  thoughtfully,  listening  to 
the  smothered  thunder  of  the 
torrent,  tunneling  its  way  be- 
neath your  feet,  and  wonder- 
ing whether  the  frozen  arch 
above  it  be  at  all  points  as  firnn 
as  is  desirable.  Now  and  again, 
as  in  single  file  you  walk  cau- 
tiously along  some  jagged  ridge, 
you,  catch  glimpses  of  the  green 
world  three  thousand  feet  below 
you,  though  you  gaze  not  long 
upon  the  view,  for  your  atten- 
tion is  chiefly  directed  to  watch- 
ing the  footprints  of  the  guide, 
lest  by  deviating  to  the  right  or 
left  you  find  yourself  at  one 
stride  back  in  the  valley — or,  to 
be  more  correct,  are  found  there. 
These  things  you  do,  and  as 
ekercise  they  are  healthful  and 


98      WOMAN  OF  THE  SMTER. 

invigorating.  But  a  reindeer 
you  never  see,  and  unless,  over- 
coming the  prejudices  of  your 
British-bred  conscience,  you 
care  to  take  an  occasional  pop 
at  a  fox,  you  had  better  have 
left  your  rifle  at  the  hut,  and 
instead  have  brought  a  stick 
which  would  have  been  helpful. 
Notwithstanding  which  the 
guide  continues  sanguine,  and 
in  broken  English,  helped  out 
by  stirring  gesture,  tells  of  the 
terrible  slaughter  generally  done 
by  sportsmen  under  his  super- 
intendence, and  of  the  vast 
herds  that  generally  infest  these 
fields ;  and  when  you  grow 
skeptical  upon  the  subject  of 
Reins  he  whispers  alluringly  of 
Bears. 


WOMAN  OF  THE  SALTER.      99 

Once  in  a  way  you  will  come 
across  a  track,  and  will  follow 
it  breathlessly  for  hours,  and  it 
will  lead  to  a  sheer  precipice. 
Whether  the  explanation  is 
suicide,  or  a  reprehensible  tend- 
ency on  the  part  of  the  animal 
toward  practical  joking,  you 
are  left  to  decide  for  yourself. 
Then,  with  many  rough  miles 
between  you  and  your  rest,  you 
abandon  the  chase. 

But  I  speak  from  personal 
experience  merely. 

All  day  long  we  had  tramped 
through  the  pitiless  rain,  stop- 
ping only  for  an  hour  at  noon 
to  eat  some  dried  venison  and 
smoke  a  pipe  beneath  the  shelter 
of  an  overhanging  cliff.  Soon 
afterward  Michael  knocked  over 


lOO    WOMAN  OF  THE  SMTER. 

a  ryper  (a  bird  that  will  hardly 
take  the  trouble  to  hop  out  of 
your  way)  with  his  gun-barrel, 
which  incident  cheered  us  a 
little  ;  and,  later  on,  our  flag- 
ging spirits  were  still  further 
revived  by  the  discovery  of 
apparently  very  recent  deer 
tracks.  These  we  followed,  for- 
getful, in  our  eagerness,  of  the 
lengthening  distance  back  to 
the  hut,  of  the  fading  daylight, 
of  the  gathering  mist.  The 
track  led  us  higher  and  higher, 
farther  and  farther  into  the 
mountains,  until  on  the  shores 
of  a  desolate  rock-bound  vand 
it  abruptly  ended,  and  we  stood 
staring  at  one  another,  and  the 
snow  began  to  fall. 

Unless  in  the  next  half  hour 


WOMAN  OF  THE  SMTER.    lOI 

we  could  chance  upon  a  saeter, 
this  meant  passing  the  night 
upon  the  mountain.  Michael 
and  I  looked  at  the  guide  ;  but 
though,  with  characteristic  Nor- 
wegian sturdiness,  he  put  a  bold 
face  upon  it,  we  could  see  that 
in  that  deepening  darkness  he 
knew  no  more  than  we  did. 
Wasting  no  time  on  words,  we 
made  straight  for  the  nearest 
point  of  descent,  knowing  that 
any  human  habitation  must  be 
far  below  us. 

Down  we  scrambled,  heedless 
of  torn  clothes  and  bleeding 
hands,  the  darkness  pressing 
closer  round  us.  Then  sud- 
denly it  became  black — black 
as  pitch — and  we  could  only 
hear  each  other.     Another  step 


I02    WOMAN  OF  THE  SMTER. 

might  mean  death.  We 
stretched  out  our  hands,  and 
felt  each  other.  Why  we  spoke 
in  whispers  I  do  not  know,  but 
we  seemed  afraid  of  our  own 
voices.  We  agreed  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  to  stop  where 
we  were  till  morning,  clinging 
to  the  short  grass ;  so  we  lay 
there  side  by  side,  for  what 
may  have  been  five  minutes  or 
may  have  been  an  hour.  Then, 
attempting  to  turn,  I  lost  my 
grip  and  rolled.  I  made  con- 
vulsive efforts  to  clutch  the 
ground,  but  the  incline  was  too 
steep.  How  far  I  fell  I  could 
not  say,  but  at  last  something 
stopped  me.  I  felt  it  cautiously 
with  my  foot:  it  did  not  yield, 
so  I  twisted  myself  round  and 


WOMAN  OF  THE  SJETER.    103 

touched  it  with  my  hand.  It 
seemed  planted  firmly  in  the 
earth.  I  passed  my  arm  along 
to  the  right,  then  to  the  left. 
I  shouted  with  joy.  It  was  a 
fence. 

Rising  and  groping  about  me, 
I  found  an  opening  and  passed 
through,  and  crept  forward 
with  palms  outstretched  until  I 
touched  the  logs  of  a  hut;  then, 
feeling  my  way  round,  dis- 
covered the  door,  and  knocked. 
There  came  no  response,  so  I 
knocked  louder;  then  pushed, 
and  the  heavy  woodwork 
yielded,  groaning.  But  the 
darkness  within  was  even  darker 
than  the  darkness  without. 
The  others  had  contrived  to 
crawl      down     and     join      me. 


104    WOMAN  OF  THE  S^ETER. 

Michael  struck  a  wax  vesta  and 
held  it  up,  and  slowly  the  room 
came  out  of  the  darkness  and 
stood  round  us. 

Then  something  rather  star- 
tling happened.  Giving  one 
swift  glance  about  him,  our 
guide  uttered  a  cry,  and  rushed 
out  into  the  night.  We  fol- 
lowed to  the  door,  and  called 
after  him,  but  only  a  voice 
came  to  us  out  of  the  blackness, 
and  the  only  words  that  we 
could  catch,  shrieked  back  in 
terror,  were  :  "  Scctervro^ien  / 
S(£tcrvronen  !  "  {"  The  woman 
of  the  sastcr  "). 

"  Some  foolish  superstition 
about  the  place,  I  suppose," 
said  Michael.  "  In  these 
mountain   solitudes  men  breed 


WOMAN  OF  THE  SALTER.     105 

ghosts  for  company.  Let  us 
make  a  fire.  Perhaps  when  he 
sees  the  Hght  his  desire  for 
food  and  shelter  may  get  the 
better  of  his  fears." 

We  felt  about  in  the  small 
inclosure  round  the  house,  and 
gathered  juniper  and  birch 
twigs,  and  kindled  a  fire  upon 
the  open  stove  built  in  the  cor- 
ner of  the  room.  Fortunately 
we  had  some  dried  reindeer  and 
bread  in  our  bag,  and  on  that 
and  the  ryper  and  the  contents 
of  our  flasks  we  supped.  After- 
ward, to  while  away  the  time, 
we  made  an  inspection  of  the 
strange  eyrie  we  had  lighted  on. 

It  was  an  old  log-built  saeter. 
Some  of  these  mountain  farm- 
steads are  as  old  as  the  stone 


io6    WOMAN  OF  THE  S^TER. 

ruins  of  other  countries.  Carv- 
ings of  strange  beasts  and 
demons  were  upon  its  blackened 
rafters,  and  on  the  Hntel,  in 
runic  letters,  ran  this  legend : 
"  Hund  builded  me  in  the  days 
of  Haarfager."  The  house  con- 
sisted of  two  large  apartments. 
Originally,  no  doubt,  these  had 
been  separate  dwellings  stand- 
ing beside  one  another,  but  they 
were  now  connected  by  a  long, 
low  gallery.  Most  of  the  scanty 
furniture  was  almost  as  ancient 
as  the  walls  themselves,  but 
many  articles  of  a  comparatively 
recent  date  had  been  added. 
All  was  now,  however,  rotting 
and  falling  into  decay. 

The  place  appeared  to  have 
been  deserted   suddenly  by  its 


WOMAN  OF  THE  SALTER.    107 

last  occupants.  Household  uten- 
sils lay  as  they  were  left,  rust 
and  dirt  incrusted  on  them. 
An  open  book,  limp  and  mil- 
dewed, lay  face  downward  on  the 
table,  while  many  others  were 
scattered  about  both  rooms, 
together  with  much  paper, 
scored  with  faded  ink.  The 
curtains  hung  in  shreds  about 
the  windows  ;  a  woman's  cloak, 
of  an  antiquated  fashion, 
drooped  from  a  nail  behind 
the  door.  In  an  oak  chest  we 
found  a  tumbled  heap  of  yel- 
low letters.  They  were  of 
various  dates,  extending  over 
a  period  of  four  months ;  and 
with  them,  apparently  intended 
to  receive  them,  lay  a  large 
envelope,    inscribed     with    an 


lo8    WOMAN  OF  THE  S^TER. 

address  in  London  that  has 
since  disappeared. 

Strong  curiosity  overcoming 
faint  scruples,  we  read  them  by 
the  dull  glow  of  the  burning 
juniper  twigs,  and  as  we  laid 
aside  the  last  of  them,  there  rose 
from  the  depths  below  us  a 
wailing  cry,  and  all  night  long 
it  rose  and  died  away,  and  rose 
again,  and  died  away  again; 
whether  born  of  our  brain  or  of 
some  human  thing,  God  knows. 

And  these,  a  little  altered  and 
shortened,  are  the  letters : 

Extract  from  first  letter. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,  my  dear 
Joyce,  what  a  haven  of  peace 
this   place    is  to  me  after   the 


WOMAN  OF  THE  SyETER.     109 

racket  and  fret  of  town.  I  am 
almost  quite  recovered  already, 
and  am  growing  stronger  every- 
day ;  and,  joy  of  joys,  my  brain 
has  come  back  to  me,  fresher 
and  more  vigorous,  I  think,  for 
its  holiday.  In  this  silence 
and  sohtude  my  thoughts  flow 
freely,  and  the  difficulties  of 
my  task  are  disappearing  as  if 
by  magic.  We  are  perched 
upon  a  tiny  plateau  halfway 
up  the  mountain.  On  one  side 
the  rock  rises  almost  perpen- 
dicularly, piercing  the  sky ; 
while  on  the  other,  two  thou- 
sand feet  below  us,  the  torrent 
hurls  itself  into  the  black  waters 
of  the  fiord.  The  house  con- 
sists of  two  rooms — or,  rather, 
it  is  two  cabins  connected  by  a 


no    WOMAN  OF  THE  S.'ETER. 

passage.  The  larger  one  we  use 
as  a  living  room,  and  the  other 
is  our  sleeping  apartment.  We 
have  no  servant,  but  do  every- 
thing for  ourselves.  I  fear 
sometimes  Muriel  must  find  it 
lonely.  The  nearest  human 
habitation  is  eight  miles  away, 
across  the  mountain,  and  not  a 
soul  comes  near  us.  I  spend  as 
much  time  as  I  can  with  her, 
however,  during  the  day,  and 
make  up  for  it  by  working  at 
night  after  she  has  gone  to 
sleep  ;  and  when  I  question  her, 
she  only  laughs,  and  answers 
that  she  loves  to  have  me  all  to 
herself.  (Here  you  will  smile 
cynically,  I  know,  and  say, 
'  Humph,  I  wonder  will  she  say 
the  same  when  they  have  been 


WOMAN  OF  THE  SMTER,    IH 

married  six  years  instead  of  six 
months.')  At  the  rate  I  am 
working  now  I  shall  have  fin- 
ished my  first  volume  by  the 
spring,  and  then,  my  dear  fel- 
low, you  must  try  and  come 
over,  and  we  will  walk  and  talk 
together  '  amid  these  storm- 
reared  temples  of  the  gods,'  I 
have  felt  a  new  man  since  I 
arrived  here.  Instead  of  hav- 
ing to  '  cudgel  my  brains,'  as 
we  say,  thoughts  crowd  upon 
me.  This  work  will  make  my 
name." 


112    WOMAN  OF  THE  S^TER. 

Part  of  the  third  letter,  the 
second  being  mere  talk  about 
the  book  {a  history  appa- 
rently) that  the  man  was 
writing. 

"My  dear  Joyce:  I  have 
written  you  two  letters — this 
will  make  the  third — but  have 
been  unable  to  post  them. 
Every  day  I  have  been  expect- 
ing a  visit  from  some  farmer  or 
villager,  for  the  Norwegians  arc 
kindly  people  toward  strangers 
— to  say  nothing  of  the  induce- 
ments of  trade.  A  fortnight 
having  passed,  however,  and  the 
commissariat  question  having 
become  serious,  I  yesterday  set 
out  before  dawn,  and  made  my 
way  down  to  the  valley  ;    and 


WOMAN  OF  THE  S^TER.    113 

this  gives  me  something  to  tell 
you.  Nearing  the  village  I 
met  a  peasant  woman.  To  my 
intense  surprise,  instead  of  re- 
turning my  salutation,  she 
stared  at  me  as  if  I  were  some 
wild  animal,  and  shrank  away 
from  me  as  far  as  the  width  of 
the  road  would  permit.  In  the 
village  the  same  experience 
awaited  me.  The  children  ran 
from  me,  the  people  avoided 
me.  At  last  a  gray-haired  old 
man  appeared  to  take  pity  on 
me,  and  from  him  I  learnt  the 
explanation  of  the  mystery.  It 
seems  there  is  a  strange  super- 
stition attaching  to  this  house 
in  which  we  are  living.  My 
things  were  brought  up  here  by 
the  two  men  who  accompanied 


114    WOMAN  OF  THE  SMTER. 

me  from  Dronthiem,  but  the 
natives  are  afraid  to  go  near  the 
place,  and  prefer  to  keep  as  far 
as  possible  from  anyone  con- 
nected with  it. 

"  The  story  is  that  the  house 
was  built  by  one  Hund,  'a 
maker  of  runes'  (one  of  the  old 
saga  writers,  no  doubt),  who 
lived  here  with  his  young  wife. 
All  went  peacefully  until,  un- 
fortunately for  him,  a  certain 
maiden  stationed  at  a  neigh- 
boring saeter  grew  to  love 
him. 

"  Forgive  me  if  I  am  telling 
you  what  you  know,  but  a 
'  saeter '  is  the  name  given  to  the 
upland  pastures  to  which,  during 
the  summer,  are  sent  the  cattle, 
generally  under  the  charge  of 


WOMAN  OF  THE  S.^TER.    11$ 

one  or  more  of  the  maids.  Here 
for  three  months  these  girls 
will  live  in  their  lonely  huts, 
entirely  shut  off  from  the  world. 
Customs  change  little  in  this 
land.  Two  or  three  such  stations 
are  within  climbing  distance  of 
this  house,  at  this  day,  looked 
after  by  the  farmers'  daughters, 
as  in  the  day's  of  Hund,  *  maker 
of  runes.' 

"  Every  night,  by  devioust 
mountain  paths,  the  womaa 
would  come  and  tap  lightly  at 
Hund's  door.  Hund  had  built 
himself  two  cabins,  one  behind 
the  other  (these  are  now,  as  I 
think  I  have  explained  to  you, 
connected  by  a  passage) ;  the 
smaller  one  was  the  homestead, 
in  the  other  he  carved  and  wrote. 


Il6     WOMAN  OF  THE  SMTER. 

SO  that  while  the  young  wife 
slept  the  '  maker  of  runes  '  and 
the  saeter  woman  sat  whis- 
pering. 

"  One  night,  however,  the 
wife  learnt  all  things,  but  said 
no  word.  Then,  as  now,  the 
ravine  in  front  of  the  inclosure 
was  crossed  by  a  slight  bridge 
of  planks,  and  over  this  bridge 
the  woman  of  the  sseter  passed 
and  repassed  each  night.  On  a 
day  when  Hund  had  gone  down 
to  fish  in  the  fiord  the  wife  took 
an  ax,  and  hacked  and  hewed 
at  the  bridge,  yet  it  still  looked 
firm  and  solid  ;  and  that  night, 
as  Hund  sat  waiting  in  his 
workshop,  there  struck  upon  his 
ears  a  piercing  cry,  and  a  crash- 
ing of  logs  and  rolling  rock,  and 


The  1'eii^eanit:  oj"  I/ii>i 


WOMAN  OF  THE  SMTER.    117 

then  again  the  dull  roaring  of 
the  torrent  far  below. 

"  But  the  woman  did  not  die 
unavenged ;  for  that  winter  a 
man,  skating  far  down  the  fiord, 
noticed  a  curious  object  em- 
bedded in  the  ice  ;  and  when, 
stooping,  he  looked  closer,  he 
saw  two  corpses,  one  gripping 
the  other  by  the  throat,  and  the 
bodies  were  the  bodies  of  Hund 
and  his  young  wife. 

"  Since  then  they  say  the 
woman  of  the  saeter  haunts 
Hund's  house,  and  if  she  sees 
a  light  within  she  taps  upon  the 
door,  and  no  man  may  keep  her 
out.  Many,  at  different  times, 
have  tried  to  occupy  the  house, 
but  strange  tales  are  told  of 
them.     '  Men    do    not    live   at 


ii8     WOMAN  OF  THE  S JETER, 

Hund's  saeter,'  said  my  old 
gray-haired  friend,  concluding 
his  tale — '  they  die  there.' 

"  I  have  persuaded  some  of 
the  braver  of  the  villagers  to 
bring  what  provisions  and  other 
necessaries  we  require  up  to  a 
plateau  about  a  mile  from  the 
house  and  leave  them  there. 
That  is  the  most  I  have  been 
able  to  do.  It  comes  somewhat 
as  a  shock  to  one  to  find  men 
and  women — fairly  educated 
and  intelligent  as  many  of  them 
are — slaves  to  fears  that  one 
would  expect  a  child  to  laugh 
at.  But  there  is  no  reasoning 
with  superstition." 


WOMAN  OF  THE  SMTER.    1 19 

Extract  from  the  same  letter, 
but  from  a  part  seemingly 
written  a  day  or  two  later. 

"  At  home  I  should  have  for- 
gotten such  a  tale  an  hour  after 
I  had  heard  it,  but  these  moun- 
tain fastnesses  seem  strangely 
fit  to  be  the  last  stronghold  of 
the  supernatural.  The  woman 
haunts  me  already.  At  night, 
instead  of  working,  I  find  my- 
self listening  for  her  tapping 
at  the  door  ;  and  yesterday  an 
incident  occurred  that  makes 
me  fear  for  my  own  common 
sense.  I  had  gone  out  for  a 
long  walk  alone,  and  the  twilight 
was  thickening  into  darkness 
as  I  neared  .  home.  Suddenly 
looking  up  from  my  reverie,  I 
saw,  standing   on    a  knoll    the 


120     WOMAN  OF  THE  S^TER. 

other  side  of  the  ravine,  the 
figure  of  a  woman.  She  held  a 
cloak  about  her  head,  and  I 
could  not  see  her  face.  I  took 
off  my  cap,  and  called  out  a 
good-night  to  her,  but  she  never 
moved  or  spoke.  Then — God 
knows  why,  for  my  brain  was 
full  of  other  thoughts  at  the 
time — a  clammy  chill  crept  over 
me,  and  my  tongue  grew  dry 
aiKl  parched.  I  stood  rooted 
to  the  spot,  staring  at  her  across 
the  yawning  gorge  that  divided 
us  ;  and  slowly  she  moved  away, 
and  passed  into  the  gloom,  and 
I  continued  my  way.  I  have 
said  nothing  to  Muriel,  and  shall 
not.  The  effect  the  story  has 
had  upon  myself  warns  me  not 
to  do  so." 


WOMAiV  OF  THE  SMTER.    1 21 

From  a  letter  dated  eleven  days 
later. 

"  She  has  come.  I  have  known 
she  would  since  that  evening  I 
saw  her  on  the  mountain  ;  and 
last  night  she  came,  and  we 
have  sat  and  looked  into  each 
other's  eyes.  You  will  say,  of 
course,  that  I  am  mad — that  I 
have  not  recovered  from  my 
fever — that  I  have  been  working 
too  hard — that  I  have  heard  a 
foolish  tale,  and  that  it  has 
filled  my  overstrung  brain  with 
foolish  fancies :  I  have  told 
myself  all  that.  But  the  thing 
came,  nevertheless — a  creature 
of  flesh  and  blood  ?  a  creature 
of  air  ?  a  creature  of  my  own 
imagination?  What  matter? 
It  was  real  to  me. 


122     IV OMAN  OF  THE  SALTER. 

"  It  came  last  night  as  I  sat 
working  alone.  Each  night  I 
liave  waited  for  it,  listened  for 
it — longed  for  it,  I  know  now. 
I  heard  the  passing  of  its  feet 
upon  the  bridge,  the  tapping  of 
its  hand  upon  the  door  three 
times — tap,  tap,  tap.  I  felt  my 
loins  grow  cold,  and  a  pricking 
pain  about  my  head  ;  and  I 
gripped  my  chair  with  both 
hands,  and  waited,  and  again 
there  came  the  tapping — tap, 
tap,  tap.  I  rose  and  slipped  the 
bolt  of  the  door  leading  to  the 
other  room,  and  again  I  waited, 
and  again  there  came  the  tap- 
ping— tap,  tap,  tap.  Then  I 
opened  the  heavy  outer  door, 
and  the  wind  rushed  past  me, 
scattering  my   papers,  and  the 


'  And  the  woman  entered' 


WOMAN  OF  THE  SALTER.    123 

woman  entered  in,  and  I  closed 
the  door  behind  her.  She  threw 
her  hood  back  from  her  head, 
and  unwound  a  kerchief  from 
about  her  neck,  and  laid  it  on 
the  table.  Then  she  crossed 
and  sat  before  the  fire,  and  I 
noticed  her  bare  feet  were  damp 
with  the  night  dew. 

"  I  stood  over  against  her 
and  gazed  at  her,  and  she 
smiled  at  me — a  strange,  wicked 
smile,  but  I  could  have  laid  my 
soul  at  her  feet.  She  never 
spoke  or  moved,  and  neither 
did  I  feel  the  need  of  spoken 
words,  for  I  understood  the 
meaning  of  those  upon  the 
Mount  when  they  said,  '  Let 
us  make  here  tabernacles  :  it  is 
good  for  us  to  be  here.' 


124    WOMAN  OF  THE  SMTER. 

"  How  long  a  time  passed 
thus  I  do  not  know,  but  sud- 
denly the  woman  held  her  hand 
up,  listening,  and  there  came 
a  faint  sound  from  the  other 
room.  Then  swiftly  she  drew 
her  hood  about  her  face  and 
passed  out,  closing  the  door 
softly  behind  her;  and  I  drew 
back  the  bolt  of  the  inner  door 
and  waited,  and  hearing  nothing 
more,  sat  down,  and  must  have 
fallen  asleep  in  my  chair. 

"  I  awoke,  and  instantly  there 
flashed  through  my  mind  the 
thought  of  the  kerchief  the 
woman  had  left  behind  her,  and 
I  started  from  my  chair  to  hide 
it.  But  the  table  was  already 
laid  for  breakfast,  and  my  wife 
sat  with  her  elbows  on  the  table 


WOMAN  OF  THE  SMTER.    125 

and  her  head  between  her  hands 
watching  me  with  a  look  in  her 
eyes  that  was  new  to  me. 

"  She  kissed  me,  though  her 
hps  were  cold  ;  and  I  argued  to 
myself  that  the  whole  thing 
must  have  been  a  dream.  But 
later  in  the  day,  passing  the 
open  door  when  her  back  was 
toward  me,  I  saw  her  take  the 
kerchief  from  a  locked  chest 
and  look  at  it. 

"  I  have  told  myself  it  must 
have  been  a  kerchief  of  her  own, 
and  that  all  the  rest  has  been 
my  imagination  ;  that,  if  not, 
then  my  strange  visitant  was 
no  spirit,  but  a  woman  ;  and 
that,  if  human  thing  knows 
human  thing,  it  was  no  creature 
of    flesh    and    blood    that   sat 


126    WOMAN  OF  THE  SyETER. 

beside  me  last  night.  Besides, 
what  woman  would  she  be  ? 
The  nearest  saeter  is  a  three 
hours'  climb  to  a  strong  man, 
and  the  paths  are  dangerous 
even  in  daylight :  what  woman 
would  have  found  them  in  the 
night?  What  woman  would 
have  chilled  the  air  around  her, 
and  have  made  the  blood  flow 
cold  through  all  my  veins  ? 
Yet  if  she  come  again  I  will 
speak  to  her.  I  will  stretch  out 
my  hand  and  see  whether  she 
be  mortal  thing  or  only  air." 

The  fifth  letter. 

"  My  DEAR  Joyce:  Whether 
your  eyes  will  ever  see  these 
letters  is  doubtful.     From  this 


JVOAfAN   OF  THE  SMTER.    1 27 

place  I  shall  never  send  them.. 
They  would  read  to  you  as  the 
ravings  of  a  madman.  If  ever 
I  return  to  England  I  may  one 
day  show  them  to  you,  but 
when  I  do  it  will  be  when  I 
with  you  can  laugh  over  them. 
At  present  I  write  them  merely 
to  hide  away — putting  the 
words  down  on  paper  saves  my 
screaming  them  aloud. 

"  She  comes  each  night  now, 
taking  the  same  seat  beside  the 
embers,  and  fixing  upon  me 
those  eyes,  with  the  hell-light 
in  them,  that  burn  into  my 
brain  ;  and  at  rare  times  she 
smiles,  and  all  my  being  passes 
out  of  me,  and  is  hers.  I  make 
no  attempt  to  work.  I  sit 
listening  for  her  footsteps   oa 


128    WOMAN-  OF  THE  S.^TER. 

the  creaking  bridge,  for  the 
rustling  of  her  feet  upon  the 
grass,  for  the  tapping  of  her 
hand  upon  the  door.  No  word 
is  uttered  between  us.  Each 
day  I  say :  '  When  she  comes 
to-night  I  will  speak  to  her.  I 
will  stretch  out  my  hand  and 
touch  her.'  Yet  when  she 
enters  all  thought  and  will 
goes  out  from  me. 

"  Last  night  as  I  stood  gazing 
at  her,  my  soul  filled  with  her 
wondrous  beauty  as  a  lake  with 
moonlight,  her  lips  parted,  and 
she  started  from  her  chair  ;  and, 
turning,  I  thought  I  saw  a  white 
face  pressed  against  the  win- 
dow, but  as  I  looked  it  vanished. 
Then  she  drew  her  cloak  about 
her,    and    passed    out.     I    slid 


WOMAN  OF  THE  SMTER.    129 

back  the  bolt  I  always  draw 
now,  and  stole  into  the  other 
room,  and,  taking  down  the 
lantern,  held  it  above  the  bed. 
But  Muriel's  eyes  were  closed 
as  if  in  sleep." 

Extract  from  the  sixth  letter. 

"  It  is  not  the  night  I  fear, 
but  the  day.  I  hate  the  sight 
of  this  woman  with  whom  I 
live,  whom  I  call  '  wife.'  I 
shrink  from  the  blow  of  her 
cold  lips,  the  curse  of  her  stony 
eyes.  She  has  seen,  she  has 
iearnt ;  I  feel  it,  I  know  it. 
Yet  she  winds  her  arms  around 
my  neck,  and  calls  me  sweet- 
heart, and  smooths  my  hair 
with  her  soft,  false  hands.     We 


130    WOMAN  OF  THE  SMTER. 

speak  mocking  words  of  love  to 
one  another,  but  I  know  her 
cruel  eyes  are  ever  following  me. 
She  is  plotting  her  revenge,  and 
I  hate  her,  I  hate  her,  I  hate 
her!" 

Part  of  the  seventh  letter. 

"  This  morning  I  went  down 
to  the  fiord.  I  told  her  I  should 
not  be  back  until  the  evening. 
She  stood  by  the  door  watching 
me  until  we  were  mere  specks 
to  one  another,  and  a  promon- 
tory of  the  mountain  shut  me 
from  view.  Then,  turning  aside 
from  the  track,  I  made  my  way, 
running  and  stumbling  over  the 
jagged  ground,  round  to  the 
other  side  of  the  mountain,  and 


WOMAN  OF  THE  SMTER.    131 

began  to  climb  again.  It  was 
slow,  weary  work.  Often  I  had 
to  go  miles  out  of  my  road  to 
avoid  a  ravine,  and  twice  I 
reached  a  high  point  only  to 
have  to  descend  again.  But  at 
length  I  crossed  the  ridge,  and 
crept  down  to  a  spot  from 
where,  concealed,  I  could  spy 
upon  my  own  house.  She — 
my  wife — stood  by  the  flimsy 
bridge.  A  short  hatchet,  such 
as  butchers  use,  was  in  her  hand. 
She  leant  against  a  pine  trunk, 
with  her  arm  behind  her,  as  one 
stands  whose  back  aches  with 
long  stooping  in  some  cramped 
position  ;  and  even  at  that  dis- 
tance I  could  see  the  cruel 
smile  about  her  lips. 

"  Then  I  recrossed  the  ridge, 


132    WOMAN  OF  THE  SyETER. 

and  crawled  down  again,  and 
waiting  until  evening,  walked 
slowly  up  the  path.  As  I  came 
in  view  of  the  house  she  saw 
me,  and  waved  her  handkerchief 
to  me,  and  in  answer  I  waved 
my  hat  and  shouted  curses  at 
her  that  the  wind  whirled  away 
into  the  torrent.  She  met  me 
with  a  kiss,  and  I  breathed  no 
hint  to  her  that  I  had  seen.  Let 
her  devil's  work  remain  undis- 
turbed. Let  it  prove  to  me  what 
manner  of  thing  this  is  that 
haunts  me.  If  it  be  spirit, 
then    the    bridge  will    bear   it 

safely  ;  if  it  be  woman 

"  But  I  dismiss  the  thought. 
If  it  be  human  thing  why  does 
it  sit  gazing  at  me,  never  speak- 
ing ?  why  does   my  tongue  re- 


WOMAN-  OF  THE  S^TER.    I33 

fuse  to  question  it  ?  why  does 
all  power  forsake  me  in  its  pres- 
ence, so  that  I  stand  as  in  a 
dream  ?  Yet  if  it  be  spirit 
why  do  I  hear  the  passing  of  her 
feet  ?  and  why  does  the  night 
rain  glisten  on  her  hair? 

"  I  force  myself  back  into  my 
chair.  It  is  far  into  the  night, 
and  I  am  alone,  waiting,  listen- 
ing. If  it  be  spirit  she  will 
come  to  me ;  and  if  it  be 
woman  I  shall  hear  her  cry 
above  the  storm — unless  it  be 
a  demon  mocking  me. 

"  I  have  heard  the  cry.  It 
rose,  piercing  and  shrill,  above 
the  storm,  above  the  riving  and 
rending  of  the  bridge,  above  the 
downward  crashing  of  the  logs 
and  loosened  stones.     I  hear  it 


134     WOMAN  OF  THE  SMTER. 

as  I  listen  now.  It  is  cleaving 
its  way  upward  from  the  depths 
below.  It  is  wailing-  through 
the  room  as  I  sit  writing. 

"  I  have  crawled  upon  my 
belly  to  the  utmost  edge  of  the 
still  standing  pier,  until  I  could 
feel  with  my  hand  the  jagged 
splinters  left  by  the  fallen  planks 
and  have  looked  down.  But 
the  chasm  was  full  to  the  brim 
with  darkness.  I  shouted,  but 
the  wind  shook  my  voice  into 
mocking  laughter.  I  sit  here, 
feebly  striking  at  the  madness 
that  is  creeping  nearer  and 
nearer  to  nie.  I  tell  myself  the 
whole  thing  is  but  the  fever 
in  my  brain.  The  bridge  was 
rotten.  The  storm  was  strong. 
The    cry  is    but    a    single  one 


WOMAN  OF  THE  S^TER.    135 

among  the  many  voices  of  the 
mountain.  Yet  still  I  listen  ; 
and  it  rises,  clear  and  shrill, 
above  the  moaning  of  the  pines, 
above  the  sobbing  of  the  wa- 
ters. It  beats  like  blows  upon 
my  skull,  and  I  know  that  she 
will  never  come  again." 


Extract  from  the  last  letter, 

"  I  shall  address  an  envelope 
to  you,  and  leave  it  among 
these  letters.  Then,  should  I 
never  come  back,  some  chance 
wanderer  may  one  day  find  and 
post  them  to  you,  and  you  will 
know. 

"  My  books  and  writings  re- 
main untouched.      We   sit    to- 


136     WOMAN  OF  THE  S^TER. 

gether  of  a  night — this  woman 
I  call '  wife  '  and  I — she  holding 
in  her  hands  some  knitted  thing 
that  never  grows  longer  by  a 
single  stitch,  and  I  with  a 
volume  before  me  that  is  ever 
open  at  the  same  page.  And 
day  and  night  we  watch  each 
other  stealthily,  moving  to  and 
fro  about  the  silent  house  ;  and 
at  times,  looking  round  swiftly, 
I  catch  the  smile  upon  her  lips 
before  she  has  time  to  smooth 
it  away. 

"  We  speak  like  strangers 
about  this  and  that,  making 
talk  to  hide  our  thoughts.  We 
make  a  pretense  of  busying 
ourselves  about  whatever  will 
help  us  to  keep  apart  from  one 
another. 


WOMAN  OF  THE  SMTER.    137 

"At  night,  sitting  here  be- 
tween the  shadows  and  the  dull 
glow  of  the  smoldering  twigs, 
I  sometimes  think  I  hear  the 
tapping  I  have  learnt  to  listen 
for,  and  I  start  from  my  seat, 
and  softly  open  the  door  and 
look  out.  But  only  the  Night 
stands  there.  Then  I  close-to 
the  latch,  and  she — the  living 
woman — asks  me  in  her  purring 
voice  what  sound  I  heard, 
hiding  a  smile  as  she  stoops 
low  over  her  work ;  and  I 
answer  lightly,  and,  moving  to- 
ward her,  put  my  arm  about 
her,  feeling  her  softness  and  her 
suppleness,  and  wondering, 
supposing  I  held  her  close  to 
me  with  one  arm  while  pressing 
her  from  me  with  the  other,  how 


138     WOMAN  OF  THE  SMTER. 

long  before  I  should  hear  the 
cracking  of  her  bones. 

"  For  here,  amid  these  savage 
solitudes,  I  also  am  grown 
savage.  The  old  primeval  pas- 
sions of  love  and  hate  stir 
within  me,  and  they  are  fierce 
and  cruel  and  strong,  beyond 
what  you  men  of  the  later  ages 
could  understand.  The  culture 
of  the  centuries  has  fallen  from 
me  as  a  flimsy  garment  whirled 
away  by  the  mountain  wind ; 
the  old  savage  instincts  of  the 
race  lie  bare.  One  day  I  shall 
twine  my  fingers  about  her  full 
white  throat,  and  her  eyes  will 
slowly  come  toward  me,  and 
her  hps  will  part,  and  the  red 
tongue  creep  out  ;  and  back- 
ward, step  by  step,  I  shall  push 


WOMAN  OF  THE  S^TER.    1 39 

her  before  me,  gazing  the  while 
upon  her  bloodless  face,  and  it 
will  be  my  turn  to  smile.  Back- 
ward through  the  open  door, 
backward  along  the  garden  path 
between  the  juniper  bushes, 
backward  till  her  heels  are  over- 
hanging the  ravine,  and  she 
grips  life  with  nothing  but  her 
little  toes,  I  shall  force  her, 
step  by  step,  before  me.  Then 
I  shall  lean  forward,  closer, 
closer,  till  I  kiss  her  purpling 
lips,  and  down,  down,  down, 
past  the  startled  sea  birds,  past 
the  white  spray  of  the  foss,  past 
the  downward  peeping  pines, 
down,  down,  down,  we  will  go 
together,  till  we  find  the  thing 
that  lies  sleeping  beneath  the 
waters  of  the  fiord." 


14°     WOMAN  OF  THE  SMTER. 

With  these  words  ended  the 
last  letter,  unsigned.  At  the 
first  streak  of  dawn  we  left  the 
house,  and,  after  much  wander- 
ing, found  our  way  back  to  the 
valley.  But  of  our  guide  we 
heard  no  news.  Whether  he 
remained  still  upon  the  moun- 
tain, or  whether  by  some  false 
step  he  had  perished  upon  that 
night,  we  never  learnt. 


III. 

VARIETY    PATTER. 


VARIETY    PATTER. 

Y  first  appearance  at  a 
music  hall  was  in  the 
year  one  thousand  eight 

hundred    and    s Well,    I 

would  rather  not  mention  the 
exact  date.  I  was  fourteen  at  the 
time.  It  was  during  the  Christ- 
mas holidays,  and  my  aunt  had 
given  me  five  shillings  to  go  and 
see  Phelps  —  I  think  it  was 
Phelps — in  Coriolanus — I  think 
it  was  Coriolanus.  Anyhow,  it 
was  to  see  a  high-class  and  im- 
proving entertainment,  I  know. 
I    suggested    that    I    should 

»43 


144       VARIETY  PATTER. 

induce  young  Skegson,  who 
lived  in  our  road,  to  go  with 
me.  Skegson  is  a  barrister  now, 
and  could  not  tell  you  the  dif- 
ference between  a  knave  of  clubs 
and  a  club  of  knaves.  A  few 
years  hence  he  will,  if  he  work 
hard,  be  innocent  enough  for  a 
judge.  But  at  the  period  of 
which  I  speak  he  was  a  red- 
haired  boy  of  worldly  tastes, 
notwithstanding  which  I  loved 
him  as  a  brother.  My  dear 
mother  wished  to  see  him  before 
consenting  to  the  arrangement, 
so  as  to  be  able  to  form  her  own 
opinion  as  to  whether  he  was 
a  fit  and  proper  companion  for 
me ;  and  accordingly  he  was 
invited  to  tea.  He  came,  and 
made  a  most  favorable  impres- 


VARIETY  PATTER.       HS 

sion  upon  both  my  mother  and 
my  aunt.  He  had  a  way  of 
talking  about  the  advantages 
of  application  to  study  in  early 
life,  and  the  duties  of  youth  to- 
ward those  placed  in  authority 
over  it,  that  won  for  him  much 
esteem  in  grown  up  circles.  The 
spirit  of  the  Bar  had  descended 
upon  Skegson  at  a  very  early 
period  of  his  career. 

My  aunt,  indeed,  was  so 
much  pleased  with  him  that  she 
gave  him  two  shillings  toward 
his  own  expenses  ("  sprung  half 
a  dollar  "  was  how  he  explained 
the  [transaction  when  we  were 
outside),  and  commended  me 
to  his  especial  care. 

Skegson  was  very  silent  dur- 
ing the  journey.     An  idea  was 


146        VARIETY  PATTER. 

evidently  maturing  in  his  mind. 
At  the  Angel  he  stopped  and 
said :  "  Look  here,  I'll  tell  you 
what  we'll  do.  Don't  let's  go 
and  see  that  rot.  Let's  go  to  a 
music  hall." 

I  gasped  for  breath.  I  had 
heard  of  music  halls.  A  stout 
lady  had  denounced  them 
across  our  dinner  table  on  one 
occasion — fixing  the  while  a 
steely  eye  upon  her  husband, 
who  sat  opposite  and  seemed 
uncomfortable — as  low,  horrid 
places,  where  people  smoked 
and  drank  and  wore  short 
skirts,  and  had  added  an  opinion 
that  they  ought  to  be  put  down 
by  the  police — whether  the 
skirts  or  the  halls  she  did  not 
explain.     I  also  recollected  that 


:^ 


-aS^^^.^:^:?^ 


h--' 


'^w 


"  /«  those  i/iivs''' 


VARIETY  PATTER.       147 

our  charwoman,  whose  son  had 
lately  left  London  for  a  pro- 
tracted stay  in  Devonshire,  had, 
in  conversation  with  my  mother, 
dated  his  downfall  from  the 
day  when  he  first  visited  one 
of  these  places ;  and  likewise 
that  Mrs.  Philcox's  nursemaid, 
upon  her  confessing  that  she 
had  spent  an  evening  at  one 
with  her  young  man,  had  been 
called  a  shameless  hussy,  and. 
summarily  dismissed  as  being 
no  longer  a  fit  associate  for  the 
baby. 

But  the  spirit  of  lawlessness 
was  strong  within  me  in  those 
days,  so  that  I  hearkened  to  the 
voice  of  Skegson,  the  tempter, 
and  he  lured  my  feet  from 
the  paths  that  led  to  virtue  and 


T48       VARIETY  PATTER. 

Sadler's  Wells,  and  we  wan- 
dered into  the  broad  and 
crowded  ways  that  branch  off 
from  the  Angel  toward  Merry 
Islington, 

Skegson  insisted  that  we 
should  do  the  thing  in  style,  so 
we  stopped  at  a  shop  near  the 
Agricultural  Hall  and  purchased 
some  big  cigars.  A  huge  card 
in  the  window  claimed  for  these 
that  they  were  "the  most  satis- 
factory twopenny  smokes  in 
London."  I  smoked  two  of 
them  during  the  evening,  and 
never  felt  more  satisfied — using 
the  word  in  its  true  sense,  as 
implying  that  a  person  has  had 
enough  of  a  thing,  and  does 
not  desire  any  more  of  it  just 
then — in  all   my   life.      Where 


VA RIE TY  PAT TER.        1 49 

we  went,  and  what  we  saw,  my 
memory  is  not  very  clear  upon. 
We  sat  at  a  little  marble  table. 
I  know  it  was  marble  because 
it  was  so  hard,  and  cool  to  the 
head.  From  out  of  the  smoky 
mist  a  ponderous  creature  of 
strange,  undefined  shape  floated 
heavily  toward  us,  and  deposited 
a  squat  tumbler  in  front  of  me 
containing  a  pale  yellowish 
liquor,  which  subsequent  in- 
vestigation has  led  me  to  be- 
lieve must  have  been  Scotch 
whisky.  It  seemed  to  me  then 
the  most  nauseous  stuff  I  had 
ever  swallowed.  It  is  curious 
to  look  back  and  notice  how 
one's  tastes  change. 

I  reached  home  very  late  and 
very  sick.     That    was  my  first 


150        VARIETY  PATTER. 

dissipation,  and,  as  a  lesson,  it 
has  been  of  more  practical  use 
to  me  than  all  the  good  books 
and  sermons  in  the  world  could 
have  been.  I  can  remember  to 
this  day  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  room  in  my  nightshirt, 
trying  to  catch  my  bed  as  it 
came  round. 

Next  morning  I  confessed 
everything  to  my  mother,  and 
for  several  months  afterward 
was  a  reformed  character.  In- 
deed, the  pendulum  of  my 
conscience  swung  too  far  the 
other  way,  and  I  grew  exag- 
geratedly remorseful  and  un- 
healthily moral. 

There  was  published  in  those 
days,  for  the  edification  of  young 
people,  a  singularly  pessimistic 


VARIETY  PATTER.       151 

periodical  entitled  The  Chil- 
dren's Band  of  Hope  Review. 
It  was  a  magazine  much  in  favor 
among  grown  up  people,  and 
a  bound  copy  of  vol.  ix.  had 
lately  been  won  by  my  sis- 
ter as  a  prize  for  punctuality. 
(I  fancy  she  must  have  ex- 
hausted all  the  virtue  she  ever 
possessed,  in  that  direction, 
upon  the  winning  of  that  prize. 
At  all  events,  I  have  noticed 
no  ostentatious  display  of  the 
quality  in  her  later  life.)  I  had 
formerly  expressed  contempt 
for  this  book,  but  now,  in  my 
regenerate  state,  I  took  a  mor- 
bid pleasure  in  poring  over  its 
denunciations  of  sin  and  sinners. 
There  was  one  picture  in  it  that 
appeared    peculiarly  applicable 


152        VARIETY  PATTER. 

to  myself.  It  represented  a 
gaudily  costumed  young  man, 
standing  on  the  topmost  of 
three  steep  steps,  smoking  a 
large  cigar.  Behind  him  was 
a  very  small  church,  and  below 
a  bright  and  not  altogether  un- 
inviting looking  hell.  The  pic- 
ture was  headed  "  The  Three 
Steps  to  Ruin,"  and  the  three 
stairs  were  labeled  respectively 
"  Smoking,"  "  Drinking,"  "Gam- 
bling." I  had  already  traveled 
two-thirds  of  the  road  !  Was  I 
going  all  the  way,  or  should  I 
be  able  to  retrace  those  steps  ? 
I  used  to  lie  awake  at  night 
and  think  about  it  till  I  grew 
half  crazy. 

Alas!  since  then  I  have  com- 
pleted the  descent,  so  where  my 


VARIETY  PATTER.        153 

future  will    be  spent  I  do  not 
care  to  think. 

Another  picture  in  the  book 
that  troubled  me  was  the  front- 
ispiece. This  was  a  highly 
colored  print,  illustrating  the 
broad  and  narrow  ways.  The 
narrow  way  led  upward  past  a 
Sunday  school  and  a  lion  to  a 
city  in  the  clouds.  This  city 
was  referred  to  in  the  accom- 
panying letterpress  as  a  place 
of  "  Rest  and  Peace,"  but  inas- 
much as  the  town  was  repre- 
sented in  the  illustration  as  sur- 
rounded by  a  perfect  mob  of 
angels,  each  one  blowing  a 
trumpet  twice  his  own  size, 
and  obviously  blowing  it  for 
all  he  was  worth,  a  certain 
confusion  of  ideas  would   seem 


154        VARIETY  PATTER. 

to  have  crept  into  the  alle- 
gory. 

The  other  path — the  "  broad 
way  " — which  ended  in  what  at 
first  glance  appeared  to  be  a 
highly  successful  display  of  fire- 
works, started  from  the  door  of 
a  tavern,  and  led  past  a  music 
hall,  on  the  steps  of  which 
stood  a  gentleman  smoking  a 
cigar.  All  the  wicked  people 
in  this  book  smoked  cigars — 
all  except  one  young  man  who 
had  killed  his  mother  and  died 
raving  mad.  He  had  gone 
astray  on  short  pipes. 

This  made  it  uncomfortably 
clear  to  me  which  direction  I 
had  chosen,  and  I  was  greatly 
alarmed,  until,  on  examining 
the    picture    more     closely,    I 


VARIETY  PATTER.        I55 

noticed,  with  much  satisfaction, 
that  about  midway  the  two 
paths  were  connected  by  a 
handy  Httle  bridge,  by  the  use 
of  which  it  seemed  feasible, 
starting  on  the  one  path  and 
ending  up  on  the  other,  to  com- 
bine the  practical  advantages  of 
both  roads.  From  subsequent 
observation  I  have  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  a  good  many 
people  have  made  a  note  of  that 
little  bridge. 

My  own  belief  in  the  possi- 
bility of  such  convenient  com- 
promise must,  I  fear,  have  led 
to  an  ethical  relapse,  for  there 
recurs  to  my  mind  a  somewhat 
painful  scene  of  a  few  months' 
later  date,  in  which  I  am  seek- 
ing to  convince  a  singularly  un- 


15*^        VARIETY  PATTER. 

responsive  landed  proprietor 
that  my  presence  in  his  orchard 
is  solely  and  entirely  due  to  my 
having  unfortunately  lost  my 
Avay. 

It  was  not  until  I  was  nearly 
seventeen  that  the  idea  occurred 
to  me  to  visit  a  music  hall 
again.  Then,  having  regard  to 
my  double  capacity  of  "  Man 
About  Town "  and  journalist 
(for  I  had  written  a  letter  to 
TJie  Era,  complaining  of  the 
way  pit  doors  were  made  to 
open,  and  it  had  been  inserted), 
I  felt  I  had  no  longer  any  right 
to  neglect  acquaintanceship  with 
so  important  a  feature  in  the 
life  of  the  people.  Accord- 
ingly, one  Saturday  night,  I 
wended  my  way  to  the  "  Pa  v."  ; 


VARIETY  PA  TIER.        157 

and  there  the  first  person  that  I 
ran  against  was  my  uncle.  He 
laid  a  heavy  hand  upon  my 
shoulder,  and  asked  me,  in 
severe  tones,  what  I  was  doing 
there.  I  felt  this  to  be  an  awk- 
ward question,  for  it  would  have 
been  useless  trying  to  make 
him  understand  my  real  motives 
(one's  own  relations  are  never 
sympathetic),  and  I  was  some- 
what nonplussed  for  an  answer, 
until  the  reflection  occurred  to 
me.  What  was  lie  doing  there  ? 
This  riddle  I,  in  my  turn,  pro- 
pounded to  him,  with  the  result 
that  wc  entered  into  treaty,  by 
the  terms  of  which  it  was  agreed 
that  no  future  reference  should 
be  made  to  the  meeting  by 
cither  of  us — especially  not  ia 


158        VARIETY  PATTER. 

the  presence  of  my  aunt — and 
the  compact  was  ratified  ac- 
cording to  the  usual  custom, 
my  uncle  paying  the  necessary 
expenses. 

In  those  days  we  sat,  some 
four  or  six  of  us,  round  a  little 
table,  on  which  were  placed 
our  drinks.  Now  we  have  to 
balance  them  upon  a  narrow 
ledge ;  and  ladies,  as  they  pass, 
dip  the  ends  of  their  cloaks  into 
them,  and  gentlemen  stir  them 
up  for  us  with  the  ferrules  of 
their  umbrellas,  or  else  sweep 
them  off  into  our  laps  with  their 
coat  tails,  saying  as  they  do  so, 
"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon." 

Also  in  those  days  there 
were  "  chairmen  " — affable  gen- 
tlemen, who  would   drink  any- 


VARIETY  PATTER.       159 

thing  at  anybody's  expense,  and 
drink  any  quantity  of  it,  and 
never  seem  to  get  any  fuller. 
I  was  introduced  to  a  music 
hall  chairman  once,  and  when 
I  said  to  him,  "  What  is  your 
drink  ?  "  he  took  up  the  "  list 
of  beverages "  that  lay  before 
him,  and,  opening  it,  waved  his 
hand  lightly  across  its  entire 
contents,  from  clarets,  past 
champagnes  and  spirits,  down 
to  liquors.  "  That's  my  drink, 
my  boy,"  said  he.  There  was 
nothing  narrow-minded  or  ex- 
clusive about  his  tastes. 

It  was  the  chairman's  duty  to 
introdute  the  artists.  "  Ladies 
and  gentlemen,"  he  would 
shout,  in  a  voice  that  united  the 
musical  characteristics  of  a  fog 


T 6o        VA KIE  TV  PA  TTER. 

liorn  and  a  steam  saw,  "  Miss 
'Enerietta  Montressor,  the 
popular  serio-comic,  will  now 
happear."  These  announce- 
ments were  invariably  received 
■with  great  applause  by  the 
chairman  himself,  and  generally 
with  chilling  indifference  by  the 
rest  of  the  audience. 

It  was  also  the  privilege  of 
the  chairman  to  maintain  order, 
and  reprimand  evil  doers.  This 
he  usually  did  very  effectively,  . 
employing  for  the  purpose 
language  both  fit  and  forcible. 
One  chairman  that  I  remem- 
ber,  seemed,  however,  to  bo 
curiously  deficient  in  the  neces- 
sary qualities  for  this  part  of 
his  duty.  He  was  a  mild  and 
sleepy  little  man,  and   unfortu- 


VARIETY  PATTER.       i6r 

nately  he  had  to  preside  over 
an  exceptionally  rowdy  audi- 
ence at  a  small  hall  in  the 
southeast  district.  On  the 
night  that  I  was  present  there 
occurred  a  great  disturbance. 
*'  Joss  Jessop,  the  Monarch  of 
Mirth,"  a  gentleman  evidently 
high  in  local  request,  was,  for 
some  reason  or  other,  not  forth- 
coming, and  in  his  place  the 
management  proposed  to  offer 
a  female  performer  on  the 
zithern,  one  Signorina  Balla- 
tino. 

The  little  chairman  made  the 
announcement  in  a  nervous 
deprecatory  tone,  as  if  he  were 
rather  ashamed  of  it  himself. 
"'  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he 
began  —  the    poor   are    stanch 


l62        VARIETY  PATTER. 

Sticklers  for  etiquette.  I  over- 
heard a  small  child  explaining 
to  her  mother  one  night  in 
Three  Colts  Street,  Limehouse, 
that  she  could  not  get  into  the 
house  because  there  was  a 
"lady"  on  the  doorstep  drunk 
— "  Signorina  Ballatino,  the 
world-renowned " 

Here  a  voice  from  the  gallery 
requested  to  know  what  had 
become  of  "  Old  Joss,"  and  was 
greeted  by  loud  cries  of  "  'Ear, 
'ear." 

The  chairman,  ignoring  the 
interruption,  continued  : 

"  The  world-renowned  per- 
former on  the  zither " 

"On  the  whoter?"camc  in 
tones  of  plaintive  inquiry  from 
the  back  of  the  hall. 


VARIETY  PATTER.       163 

"  Ho7t  the  zither/*  retorted  the 
chairman,  waxing  mildly  indig- 
nant;  he  meant  zithern,  but  he 
called  it  a  zither.  "  A  hinstru- 
ment  well  known  to  anybody  as 
'as  'ad  any  learning." 

This  sally  was  received  with 
much  favor,  and  a  gentleman 
who  claimed  to  be  acquainted 
with  the  family  history  of  the 
interrupter  begged  the  chair- 
man to  excuse  that  ill-bred 
person  on  the  ground  that  his 
mother  used  to  get  drunk  with 
the  twopence  a  week  and  never 
sent  him  to  school. 

Cheered  by  this  breath  of 
popularity,  our  little  president 
endeavored  to  complete  his 
introduction  of  the  signorina. 
He  again  repeated  that  she  was 


164        VARIETY  PATTER. 

the  world-renowned  performer 
on  the  zithern  ;  and,  undeterred 
by  the  audible  remark  of  a  lady 
in  the  pit  to  the  effect  that 
she'd  "  never  'eard  on  'er," 
added : 

'*  She  will  now,  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  with  your  kind  per- 
mission, give   you  examples  of 

the " 

"  Blowyer  zither !  "  here  cried 
out  the  gentleman  who  had 
started  the  agitation ;  "  we 
want  Joss  Jessop." 

This  was  the  signal  for  much 
cheering  and  shrill  whistling,  in 
the  midst  of  which  a  wag  with 
a  piping  voice  suggested  as  a 
reason  for  the  favorite's  non- 
appearance that  he  had  not 
been  paid  his  last  week's  salary. 


VARIETY  PATTER.        165 

A  temporary  lull  occurred  at 
this  point,  and  the  chairman, 
seizing  the  opportunity  to  com- 
plete his  oft-impeded  speech, 
suddenly  remarked,  "  Songs  of 
the  Sunny  South  '*;  and  imme- 
diately sat  down  and  began 
hammering  upon  the  table. 

Then  Signorina  Ballatino, 
clothed  in  the  costume  of  the 
Sunny  South,  where  clothes 
are  less  essential  than  in  these 
colder  climes,  skipped  airily 
forward,  and  was  most  un- 
gallantly  greeted  with  a  storm 
of  groans  and  hisses.  Her  be- 
loved instrument  was  unfeel- 
ingly alluded  to  as  a  pie  dish, 
and  she  was  advised  to  take  it 
back  and  get  the  penny  on  it. 
The  chairman,  addressed  by  his 


1 66        VARIETY  PA  TVER. 

Christian  name  of  "Jimmee," 
was  told  to  lie  down  and  let 
her  sing  him  to  sleep.  Every 
time  she  attempted  to  start 
playing  shouts  were  raised  for 
Joss. 

At  length  the  chairman,  over- 
coming his  evident  disinclina- 
tion to  take  any  sort  of  hand 
whatever  in  the  game,  rose  and 
gently  hinted  at  the  desirability 
of  silence.  The  suggestion  not 
meeting  with  any  support,  he 
proceeded  to  adopt  sterner 
measures.  He  addressed  him- 
self personally  to  the  ringleader 
of  the  rioters,  the  man  who  had 
first  championed  the  cause  of 
the  absent  Joss.  This  person 
was  a  brawny  individual,  who, 
judging    from  appearances,  fol- 


VARIETY  PATTER.       167 

lowed  in  his  business  hours  the 
calling  of  a  coal  heaver.  "  Yes, 
sir,"  said  the  chairman,  pointing 
a  finger  toward  him,  where  he 
sat  in  the  front  row  of  the  gal- 
lery ;  *'  you,  sir,  in  the  flannel 
shirt.  I  can  see  you.  Will  you 
allow  this  lady  to  give  her  en- 
tertainment ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  he  of  the 
coal-heaving  profession  in  sten- 
torian tones. 

"  Then,  sir,"  said  the  little 
chairman,  working  himself  up 
into  a  state  suggestive  of  Jove 
about  to  launch  a  thunderbolt — 
"  then,  sir,  all  I  can  say  is  that 
you  are  no  gentleman." 

This  was  a  little  too  much, 
or  rather  a  good  deal  toolittle, 
for  the  Signora  Ballatino.     She 


1 63       VARIETY  PATTER. 

had  hitherto  been  standing  in 
a  meek  attitude  of  pathetic 
appeal,  wearing  a  mixed  smile 
of  ineffable  sweetness  ;  but  she 
evidently  felt  that  she  could  go 
a  bit  farther  than  that  herself, 
even  if  she  was  a  lady.  Calling 
the  chairman  "  an  old  messer," 
and  telling  him  for  Gawd's  sake 
to  shut  up  if  that  was  all  he 
could  do  for  his  living,  she  came 
down  to  the  front,  and  took  the 
case  into  her  own  hands. 

She  did  not  waste  time  on 
the  rest  of  the  audience.  She 
went  direct  for  that  coal  heaver, 
and  thereupon  ensued  a  slang- 
ing match  the  memory  of  which 
sends  a  thrill  of  admiration 
through  me  even  to  this  day. 
It  was  a  battle   worthy  of  the 


VARIETY  PATTER.       169 

gods.  He  was  a  heaver  of 
coals,  quick  and  ready  beyond 
his  kind.  During  many  years' 
sojourn  east  and  south,  in  the 
course  of  many  wanderings 
from  BilHngsgate  to  Limehouse 
Hole,  from  Petticoat  Lane  to 
Whitcchapel  Road  ;  out  of  eel- 
pie  shop  and  penny  gaff ;  out 
of  tavern  and  street,  and  court 
and  doss-house,  he  had  gathered 
together  slang  words  and  terms 
and  phrases,  and  they  came 
back  to  him  now,  and  he  stood 
up  against  her  manfully. 

But  as  well  might  the  lamb 
stand  up  against  the  eagle  when 
the  shadow  of  its  wings  falls 
across  the  green  pastures,  and 
the  wind  flies  before  its  dark 
oncoming.     At  the  end  of  two 


17°        VA RIE TY  PAT TER. 

minutes  he  lay  gasping,  dazed, 
and  speechless. 

Then  she  began. 

She  announced  her  intention 
of  "  wiping  down  the  bloomin' 
'all"  with  him,  and  making  it 
respectable ;  and,  metaphoric- 
ally speaking,  that  is  what  she 
did.  Her  tongue  hit  him  be- 
tween the  eyes,  and  knocked 
him  down  and  trampled  on  him. 
It  curled  round  and  round  him 
like  a  whip,  and  then  it  uncurled 
and  wound  the  other  way.  It 
seized  him  by  the  scruff  of  his 
neck,  and  tossed  him  up  into 
the  air,  and  caught  him  as  he 
descended,  and  flung  liim  to 
the  ground,  and  rolled  him  on 
it.  It  played  around  him  like 
forked    lightning,  antl   blinded 


VARIETY  PATTER.       17 1 

him.  It  danced  and  shrieked 
about  him  Hke  a  host  of  whirl- 
ing fiends,  and  he  tried  to  re- 
member a  prayer,  and  could 
not.  It  touched  him  lightly 
on  the  sole  of  his  foot  and  the 
crown  of  his  head,  and  his  hair 
stood  up  straight,  and  his  limbs 
grew  stiff.  The  people  sitting 
near  him  drew  away,  not  feeling 
it  safe  to  be  near,  and  left  him 
alone,  surrounded  by  space, 
and  language. 

It  was  the  most  artistic  piece 
of  work  of  its  kind  that  I  hav^e 
ever  heard.  Every  phrase  she 
flung  at  him  seemed  to  have 
been  woven  on  purpose  to 
entangle  him  and  to  embrace 
in  its  choking  folds  his  people 
and   his   gods,  to  strangle  with 


172        VARIETY  PATTER. 

its  threads  his  every  hope,  am- 
bition, and  belief.  Each  term 
she  put  upon  him  clung  to  him 
like  a  garment,  and  fitted  him 
without  a  crease.  The  last 
name  that  she  called  him  one 
felt  to  be,  until  one  heard  the 
next,  the  one  name  that  he  ought 
to  have  been  christened  by. 

For  five  and  three-quarter 
minutes  by  the  clock  she  spoke, 
and  never  for  one  instant  did 
she  pause  or  falter;  and  in  the 
whole  of  that  onslaught  there 
was  only  one  weak  spot. 

That  was  when  she  offered 
to  make  a  better  man  than  he 
was  out  of  a  Guy  Fawkes  and 
a  lump  of  coal.  You  felt  that 
one  lump  of  coal  would  not 
have  been  sufficient. 


VAKIE  TY  PA  1  TER.       I  7 S 

At  the  end  she  gathered 
herself  together  for  one  supreme 
effort,  and  hurled  at  him  an 
insult  so  bitter  with  scorn,  so 
sharp  with  insight  into  his 
career  and  character,  so  heavy 
with  prophetic  curse,  that  strong 
men  drew  and  held  their  breath 
while  it  passed  over  them,  and 
women  hid  their  faces  and 
shivered. 

Then  she  folded  her  arms, 
and  stood  silent ;  and  the  house^ 
from  floor  to  ceiling,  rose  and 
cheered  her  until  there  was  no 
more  breath  left  in  its  lungs. 

In  that  one  night  she  stepped 
from  oblivion  into  success.  She 
is  now  a  famous  "artiste." 

But  she  does  not  call  herself 
Signora  Ballatino,  and  she  does 


174       VARIETY  PATTER. 

not  play  upon  the  zithern. 
Her  name  has  a  homelier  sound, 
and  her  specialty  is  the  delinea- 
tion of  coster  character. 


IV. 

SILHOUETTES. 


SILHOUETTES. 

FEAR  I  must  be  of 
a  somewhat  grewsome 
turn  of  mind.  My 
sympathies  are  always  with  the 
melancholy  side  of  life  and 
nature.  I  love  the  chill  October 
days,  when  the  brown  leaves  lie 
thick  and  sodden  underneath 
your  feet,  and  a  low  sound  as 
of  stifled  sobbing  is  heard  in 
the  damp  woods — the  evenings 
in  late  autumn  time,  when  the 
white  mist  creeps  across  the 
fields,  making  it  seem  as  though 
old  Earth,  feeling  the  night  air 
cold  to  its  poor  bones,  were 
177 


1 7  8  SILHO  UE  TTES. 

drawing  ghostly  bedclothes 
round  its  withered  limbs.  I 
like  the  twilight  of  the  long 
gray  street,  sad  with  the  wail- 
ing cry  of  the  distant  muffin 
man.  One  thinks  of  him  as, 
strangely  mitered,  he  glides  by 
through  the  gloom,  jangling 
his  harsh  bell,  as  the  high 
priest  of  the  pale  spirit  of 
Indigestion,  summoning  the 
devout  to  come  forth  and  wor- 
ship. I  find  a  sweetness  in  the 
aching  dreariness  of  Sabbath 
afternoons  in  genteel  suburbs — 
in  the  evil-laden  desolatenessof 
waste  places  by  the  river,  when 
the  yellow  fog  is  stealing  inland 
across  the  ooze  and  mud,  and 
the  black  tide  gurgles  softly 
round  worm-eaten  piles. 


SILHOUETTES.  179 

I  love  the  bleak  moor,  when 
the  thin  long  line  of  the  wind- 
ing road  lies  white  on  the  dark- 
ening heath,  while  overhead 
some  belated  bird,  vexed  with 
itself  for  being  out  so  late,, 
scurries  across  the  dusky  sky, 
screaming  angrily.  I  love  the 
lonely,  sullen  lake,  hidden  away 
in  mountain  solitudes.  I  sup- 
pose it  was  my  childhood's  sur- 
roundings that  instilled  in  me 
this  affection  for  somber  hues. 
One  of  my  earliest  recollections 
is  of  a  dreary  marshland  by  the 
sea.  By  day  the  water  stood 
there  in  wide,  shallow  pools. 
But  when  one  looked  in  the 
evening  they  were  pools  of 
blood  that  lay  there. 

It  was  a  wild,  dismal  stretch 


l8o  SILHOUETTES. 

of  coast.  One  day  I  found 
myself  there  all  alone — I  for- 
get how  it  came  about — and, 
oh,  how  small  I  felt  amid  the 
sky  and  the  sea  and  the  sand 
hills  !  I  ran,  and  ran,  and  ran, 
but  I  never  seemed  to  move ; 
and  then  I  cried  and  screamed, 
louder  and  louder,  and  the  cir- 
cling seagulls  screamed  back 
mockingly  at  me.  It  was  an 
"■  unken  "  spot,  as  they  say  up 
North. 

In  the  far  back  days  of  the 
building  of  the  world  a  long, 
high  ridge  of  stones  had  been 
reared  up  by  the  sea,  dividing 
the  swampy  grassland  from  the 
sand.  Some  of  these  stones — 
"  pebbles,"  so  they  called  them 
round  about — were  as  big  as  a 


SILHOUETTES.  1 81 

man,  and  many  as  big  as  a  fair- 
sized  house ;  and  when  the  sea 
was  angry — and  very  prone  he 
was  to  anger  by  that  lonely 
shore,  and  very  quick  to  wrath, 
often  have  I  known  him  sink  to 
sleep  with  a  peaceful  smile  on 
his  rippling  waves,  to  wake  in 
fierce  fury  before  the  night  was 
spent — he  would  snatch  up 
giant  handfuls  of  these  pebbles 
and  fling  and  toss  them  here 
and  there,  till  the  noise  of  their 
rolling  and  crashing  could  be 
heard  by  the  watchers  in  the 
village  afar  off. 

"  Old  Nick's  playing  at  mar- 
bles to-night,"  they  would  say 
to  one  another,  pausing  to  lis- 
ten. And  then  the  women 
would   close   tight   their  doors, 


1 82  SILHOUETTES. 

and  try  not  to  hear  the 
sound. 

Far  out  to  sea,  by  where  the 
muddy  mouth  of  the  river 
yawned  wide,  there  rose  ever 
a  thin  white  Hue  of  surf,  and 
underneath  those  crested  waves 
there  dwelt  a  very  fearsome 
thing,  called  the  Bar.  I  grew 
to  hate  and  be  afraid  of  this 
mysterious  Bar,  for  I  heard  it 
spoken  of  always  with  bated 
breath,  and  I  knew  that  it  was 
veiy  cruel  to  fisher  folk,  and 
hurt  them  so  sometimes  that 
they  would  cry  whole  days  and 
nights  together  with  the  pain, 
or  would  sit  with  white  scared 
faces,  rocking  themselves  to 
and  fro. 

Once    when    I     was    playing 


SILHOUETTES.  183 

among  the  sand  hills  there  came 
by  a  tall,  gray  woman,  bending 
beneath  a  load  of  driftwood. 
She  paused  when  nearly  op- 
posite to  me,  and,  facing  sea- 
ward, fixed  her  eyes  upon  the 
breaking  surf  above  the  Bar. 
"  Ah,  how  I  hate  the  sight  of 
your  white  teeth!"  she  mut- 
tered ;  then  turned  and  passed 
on. 

Another  morning,  walking 
through  the  village,  I  heard  a 
low  wailing  come  from  one  of 
the  cottages,  while  a  little 
farther  on  a  group  of  women 
were  gathered  in  the  roadway 
talking.  "  Aye,"  said  one  of 
them,  "  I  thought  the  Bar  was 
looking  hungry  last  night," 

So,  putting  one  and  the  other 


1 84  SII.HO  UE  T  TES. 

together,  I  concluded  that  the 
"  Bar  "  must  be  an  ogre,  such  as 
a  body  reads  of  in  books,  who 
lived  in  a  coral  castle  deep 
below  the  river's  mouth,  and 
fed  upon  the  fishermen  as  he 
caught  them  going  down  to  the 
sea  or  coming  home. 

From  my  bedroom  window, 
on  moonlight  nights,  I  could 
watch  the  silvery  foam,  mark- 
ing the  spot  beneath  where  he 
lay  hid  ;  and  I  would  stand  on 
tiptoe,  peering  out,  until  at 
length  1  would  come  to  fancy  I 
could  see  his  hideous  form  float- 
ing below  the  waters.  Then, 
as  the  little  white-sailed  boats 
stole  by  him,  tremblingly,  I 
used  to  tremble  too,  lest  he 
should  suddenly  open  his  grim 


"  Jl^ah/i/z/p-  the   ivh He-sailed  bonts^ 


SILHOUETTES.  185 

jaws  and  gulp  them  down  ;  and 
when  they  had  all  safely  reached 
the  dark,  soft  sea  beyond  I 
would  steal  back  to  the  bedside 
and  pray  to  God  to  make  the 
Bar  good,  so  that  he  would  give 
up  eating  the  poor  fishermen. 

Another  incident  connected 
with  that  coast  lives  in  my 
mind.  It  was  the  morning  after 
a  great  storm — great  even  for 
that  stormy  coast — and  the  pas- 
sion-worn waters  were  still  heav- 
ing with  the  memory  of  a  fuiy 
that  was  dead.  Old  Nick  had 
scattered  his  marbles  far  and 
wide,  and  there  were  rents  and 
fissures  in  the  pebbly  wall  such 
as  the  oldest  fisherman  had 
never  known  before.  Some  of 
the  hugest  stones  lay  tossed  a. 


1 86  SILHOUETTES. 

hundred  yards  away,  and  the 
waters  had  dug  pits  here  and 
there  along  the  ridge  so  deep 
that  a  tall  man  might  stand  in 
some  of  them,  and  yet  his  head 
not  reach  the  level  of  the 
sand. 

Round  one  of  these  holes  a 
•small  crowd  was  pressing  ea- 
gerly, while  one  man,  standing  in 
the  hollow,  was  lifting  the  few 
remaining  stones  off  something 
that  lay  there  at  the  bottom.  I 
pushed  iny  way  between  the 
straggling  legs  of  a  big  fisher 
lad  and  peered  over  with  the 
rest.  A  ray  of  sunlight  streamed 
down  into  the  pit,  and  the  thing 
at  the  bottom  gleamed  white. 
Sprawling  there  among  the 
black  pebbles  it  looked  like  a 


SILHOUETTES.  187 

huge  spider.  One  by  one  the 
last  stones  were  lifted  away  and 
the  thing  was  left  bare,  and 
then  the  crowd  looked  at  one 
another  and  shivered. 

"  Wonder  how  he  got  there," 
said  a  woman  at  length  ;  "  some- 
body must  ha'  helped  him." 

"  Some  foreign  chap,  no 
doubt,"  said  the  man  who  had 
lifted  off  the  stones  ;  "  washed 
ashore  and  buried  here  by  the 
sea. 

"  What,  six  foot  below  the 
water  mark,  wi'  all  they  stones 
atop  of  him  ?  "  said  another, 

"  That's  no  foreign  chap," 
cried  a  grizzled  old  woman, 
pressing  forward.  "  What's  that 
that's  aside  him  ?  '* 

Someone  jumped  down  and 


1 88  SILHOUETTES. 

took  it  from  the  stone  where 
it  lay  glistening,  and  handed  it 
up  to  her,  and  she  clutched  it 
in  her  skinny  hand.  It  was  a 
gold  earring,  such  as  fishermen 
sometimes  wear.  But  this  was 
a  somewhat  large  one,  and  of 
rather  unusual  shape. 

"  That's  young  Abram  Par- 
sons, I  tell  'ee,  as  lies  down 
there,**  cried  the  old  creature 
wildly.  "  I  ought  to  know.  I 
gave  him  the  pair  o'  these  forty 
year  ago. 

It  may  be  only  an  idea  of 
mine,  born  of  after  brooding 
upon  the  scene.  I  am  inclined 
to  think  it  must  be  so,  for  I  was 
only  a  child  at  the  time,  and 
would  hardly  have  noticed  such 
a  thing.     But    it   seems  to  my 


SILHOUETTES.  189 

remembrance  that  as  the  old 
crone  ceased  another  woman 
in  the  crowd  raised  her  eyes 
slowly,  and  fixed  them  on  a 
withered  ancient  man,  who 
leant  upon  a  stick,  and  that 
for  a  moment,  unnoticed  by  the 
rest,  these  two  stood  looking 
strangely  at  each  other. 

From  these  sea-scented  scenes 
my  memory  travels  to  a  weary 
land  where  dead  ashes  lie,  and 
there  is  blackness  —  blackness 
everywhere.  Black  rivers  flow 
between  black  banks ;  black,, 
stunted  trees  grow  in  black 
fields ;  black  withered  flowers 
by  black  wayside.  Black  roads 
lead  from  blackness  past  black- 
ness to  blackness ;  and  along 
them  trudge  black,  savage-look- 


1 90  SILHO  UE  TTES. 

ing  men  and  women ;  and  by 
them  black,  old-looking  children 
play  grim,  unchildish  games. 

When  the  sun  shines  on  this 
black  land  it  glitters  black  and 
hard ;  and  when  the  rain  falls  a 
black  mist  rises  toward  heaven, 
like  the  hopeless  prayer  of  a 
hopeless  soul. 

By  night  it  is  less  dreary,  for 
then  the  sky  gleams  with  a 
lurid  light,  and  out  of  the  dark- 
ness the  red  flames  leap,  and 
high  up  in  the  air  they  gambol 
and  writhe — the  demon  spawn 
of  that  evil  land,  they  seem. 

Visitors  who  came  to  our 
house  would  tell  strange  tales 
of  this  black  land,  and  some  of 
the  stories  I  am  inclined  to 
think  were  true.     One  man  said 


SILHO  UETTES.  191 

he  saw  a  young  bulldog  fly  at 
a  boy  and  pin  him  by  the  throat. 
The  lad  jumped  about  with 
much  sprightliness,  and  tried  to- 
knock  the  dog  away.  Where- 
upon the  boy's  father  rushed 
out  of  the  house,  hard  by,  and 
caught  his  son  and  heir  roughly 
by  the  shoulder.     "  Keep  still, 

thee    young  ,    can't   'ee  !  " 

shouted  the  man  angrily  ;  "  let 
un  taste  blood." 

Another  time  I  heard  a  lady 
tell  how  she  had  visited  a  cot- 
tage during  a  strike,  to  find  the 
baby,  together  with  the  other 
children,  almost  dying  for  want 
of  food.  "Dear,  dear  me!" 
she  cried,  taking  the  wee 
wizened  mite  from  the  mother's 
arms,  "  but  I  sent  you  down  a 


192  SILHOUETTES. 

quart      of       milk      yesterday. 
Hasn't  the  child  had  it?" 

"  Theer  weer  a  little  coom, 
thank  'ee  kindly,  ma'am,"  the 
father  took  upon  himself  to 
answer;  "but  thee  see  it  weer 
only  just  enow  for  the  poops." 

We  lived  in  a  big  lonely 
house  on  the  edge  of  a  wide 
common.  One  night,  I  remem- 
ber, just  as  I  was  reluctantly 
preparing  to  climb  into  bed, 
there  came  a  wild  ringing  at 
the  gate,  followed  by  a  hoarse, 
shrieking  ciy,  and  then  a  fren- 
zied shaking  of  the  iron  bars. 

Then  hurrying  footsteps 
sounded  through  the  house, 
and  the  swift  opening  and 
closing  of  doors ;  and  I  slipped 
back    hastily   into  my  knicker- 


SILHO  UETTES.  193 

bockers  and  ran  out.  Tiie 
women  folk  were  gathered  on 
the  stairs,  while  my  father  stood 
in  the  hall,  calling  to  them  to 
be  quiet.  And  still  the  wild 
ringing  of  the  bell  continued, 
and,  above  it,  the  hoarse,  shriek- 
ing cry. 

My  father  opened  the  door 
and  went  out,  and  we  could 
hear  him  striding  down  the 
gravel  path,  and  we  clung  to 
one  another  and  waited. 

After  what  seemed  an  end- 
less time  we  heard  the  heavy 
gate  unbarred,  and  quickly 
clanged  to,  and  footsteps  return- 
ing on  the  gravel.  Then  the 
door  opened  again,  and  my 
father  entered,  and  behind  him 
a  crouching  figure  that  felt  its 


1 94  SILHO  UE  TTES. 

way  with  its  hands  as  it  crept 
along,  as  a  blind  man  might. 
The  figure  stood  up  when  it 
reached  the  middle  of  the  hall, 
and  mopped  its  eyes  with  a 
dirty  rag  that  it  carried  in  its 
hand ;  after  which  it  held  the 
rag  over  the  umbrella  stand  and 
wrung  it  out,  as  washerwomen 
wring  out  clothes,  and  the  dark 
drippings  fell  into  the  tray  with 
a  dull,  heavy  splut. 

My  father  whispered  some- 
thing to  my  mother,  and  she 
went  out  toward  the  back;  and 
in  a  little  while  we  heard  the 
stamping  of  hoofs — the  angry 
plunge  of  a  spur-startled  horse 
— the  rhythmic  throb  of  the 
long,  straight  gallop,  dying 
away  into  the  distance. 


SILHOUETTES.  195 

My  mother  returned  and 
spoke  some  reassuring  words 
to  the  servants.  My  father, 
having  made  fast  the  door  and 
extinguished  all  but  one  or  two 
of  the  lights,  had  gone  into  a 
small  room  on  the  right  of  the 
hall,  the  crouching  figure,  still 
mopping  that  moisture  from  its 
eyes,  following  him.  We  could 
hear  them  talking  there  in  low 
tones,  my  father  questioning, 
the  other  voice  thick  and  inter- 
spersed with  short  panting 
grunts. 

We  on  the  stairs  huddled 
closer  together,  and,  in  the 
darkness,  I  felt  my  mother's 
arm  steal  round  me  and  en- 
compass me,  so  that  I  was  not 
afraid.     Then  we  waited,  while 


196  SILHOUETTES. 

the  silence  round  our  frightened 
whispers  thickened  and  grew 
heavy  till  the  weight  of  it 
seemed  to  hurt  us. 

At  length,  out  of  its  depths, 
there  crept  to  our  ears  a  faint 
murmur.  It  gathered  strength, 
like  the  sound  of  the  oncom- 
ing of  a  wave  upon  a  stony 
shore,  until  it  broke  in  a  babel 
of  vehement  voices  just  outside. 
After  a  few  moments  the  hub- 
bub ceased,  and  there  came  a 
furious  ringing — then  angry 
shouts  demanding  admittance. 

Some  of  the  women  began  to 
cry.  My  father  came  out  into 
the  hall,  closing  the  room  door 
behind  him,  and  ordered  them 
to  be  quiet  so  sternly  that  they 
were  stunned  into  silence.     The 


SILHOUETTES.  197 

furious  ringing  was  repeated  ; 
and  this  time  threats  mingled 
among  the  hoarse  shouts.  My 
mother's  arm  tightened  around 
me,  and  I  could  hear  the  beat- 
ing of  her  heart. 

The  voices  outside  the  gate 
sank  into  a  low  confused 
mumbling.  Soon  they  died 
away  altogether,  and  the  silence 
flowed  back. 

My  father  turned  up  the  hall 
lamp,  and  stood  listening. 

Suddenly,  from  the  back  of 
the  house,  rose  the  noise  of  a 
great  crashing,  followed  by 
oaths  and  savage  laughter. 

My  father  rushed  forward, 
but  was  borne  back ;  and  in 
an  instant  the  hall  was  full 
of    grim,  ferocious    faces.     My 


198  SILHOUETTES. 

father,  trembling  a  little  (or 
else  it  was  the  shadow  cast  by 
the  flickering  lamp),  and  with 
lips  tight  pressed,  stood  con- 
fronting them  ;  while  we  women 
and  children,  too  scared  to  even 
cry,  shrunk  back  up  the  stairs. 

What  followed  during  the 
next  few  moments  is,  in  my 
memory,  only  a  confused 
tumult,  above  which  my  father's 
high,  clear  tones  rise  every  now 
and  again,  entreating,  arguing, 
commanding.  I  see  nothing 
distinctly  until  one  of  the 
grimmest  of  the  faces  thrusts 
itself  before  the  others,  and  a 
voice  which,  like  Aaron's  rod, 
swallows  up  all  its  fellows,  says 
in  deep,  determined  bass, 
"  Coom,      we've       had       enow 


SILHOUETTES.  199 

chatter,  master.  Thee  mun 
give  un  up,  or  thee  mun  get 
out  o'  th'  way,  an'  we'll  search 
th'  house  for  oursel'." 

Then  a  light  flashed  into  my 
father's  eyes  that  kindled  some- 
thing inside  me,  so  that  the  fear 
went  out  of  me,  and  I  struggled 
to  free  myself  from  my  mother's 
arm,  for  the  desire  stirred  me 
to  fling  myself  down  upon  the 
grimy  faces  below,  and  beat  and 
stamp  upon  them  with  my  fists. 
Springing  across  the  hall,  he 
snatched  from  the  wall  where  it 
hung  an  ancient  club,  part  of  a 
trophy  of  old  armor,  and  plant- 
ing his  back  against  the  door 
through  which  they  would  have 
to  pass,  he  shouted,  "  Then  be 
damned  to  you  all,  he's  in  this 


2  oo  SILHO  UE  T  TES. 

room !  Come  and  fetch  him 
out." 

(I  recollect  that  speech  well. 
I  puzzled  over  it,  even  at  that 
time,  excited  though  I  was.  I 
had  always  been  told  that  only- 
low,  wicked  people  ever  used 
the  word  "  damn,"  and  I 
tried  to  reconcile  things,  and 
failed.) 

The  men  drew  back  and  mut- 
tered among  themselves.  It 
was  an  ugly-looking  weapon, 
studded  with  iron  spikes.  My 
father  held  it  secured  to  his 
hand  by  a  chain,  and  there  was 
an  ugly  look  about  him  also 
now  that  gave  his  face  a  strange 
likeness  to  the  dark  faces  round 
him. 

But    my   mother   grew   very 


SILHOUETTES.  2or 

white  and  cold,  and  underneath 
her  breath  she  kept  crying, 
"  Oh,  will  they  never  come — 
will  they  never  come  ?  "  and  a 
cricket  somewhere  about  the 
house  began  to  chirp. 

Then  all  at  once,  without  a 
word,  my  mother  flew  down 
the  stairs,  and  passed  like  a 
flash  of  light  through  the  crowd 
of  dusky  figures.  How  she  did 
it  I  could  never  understand,  for 
the  two  heavy  bolts  had  both 
been  drawn,  but  the  next  mo- 
ment the  door  stood  wide  open  ; 
and  a  hum  of  voices,  cheery 
with  the  anticipation  of  a  period 
of  perfect  bliss,  was  borne  in 
upon  the  cool  night  air. 

My  mother  was  always  very 
quick  of  hearing. 


202  SILHOUETTES. 

Again,  I  see  a  wild  crowd  of 
grim  faces,  and  my  father's, 
very  pale,  among  them.  But 
this  time  the  faces  are  very 
many,  and  they  come  and  go 
like  faces  in  a  dream.  The 
ground  beneath  my  feet  is  wet 
and  sloppy,  and  a  black  rain  is 
falling.  There  are  women's 
faces  in  the  crowd,  wild  and 
haggard,  and  long  skinny  arms 
stretch  out  threateningly  to- 
ward my  father,  and  shrill, 
frenzied  voices  call  out  curses 
on  him.  Boys'  faces  also  pass 
me  in  the  gray  light,  and  on 
some  of  them  there  is  an  imp- 
ish grin. 

I  seem  to  be  in  everybody's 
way ;  and  to  get  out  of  it  I 
crawl     into    a    dark,    draughty 


SILHOUETTES.  203 

corner  and  crouch  there  among 
cinders.  Around  me  great 
engines  fiercely  strain  and  pant 
like  living  things  fighting 
beyond  their  strength.  Their 
gaunt  arms  whirl  madly  above 
me,  and  the  ground  rocks  with 
their  throbbing.  Dark  figures 
flit  to  and  fro,  pausing  from  time 
to  time  to  wipe  the  black  sweat 
from  their  faces. 

The  pale  light  fades,  and  the 
flame-lit  night  lies  red  upon  the 
land.  The  flitting  figures  take 
strange  shapes.  I  hear  the 
hissing  of  wheels,  the  furious 
clanking  of  iron  chains,  the 
hoarse  shouting  of  many  voices, 
the  hurrying  tread  of  many 
feet ;  and,  through  all,  the  wail- 
ing  and    weeping  and    cursing 


204  SILHOUETTES. 

that  never  seem  to  cease,  I 
drop  into  a  restless  sleep,  and 
dream  that  I  have  broken  a 
chapel  window,  stone-throwing, 
and  have  died  and  gone  to 
hell. 

At  length  a  cold  hand  is  laid 
upon  my  shoulder,  and  I  awake. 
The  wild  faces  have  vanished, 
and  all  is  silent  now,  and  I 
wonder  if  the  whole  thing  has 
been  a  dream.  My  father  lifts 
me  into  the  dogcart,  and  we 
drive  home  through  the  chill 
dawn. 

My  mother  opens  the  door 
softly  as  we  alight.  She  does 
not  speak,  only  looks  her  ques- 
tion. "  It's  all  over,  Maggie," 
answers  my  father  very  quietly 
as  he  takes  off  his  coat  and  lays 


SILHO  UETTES.  205 

it  across  a  chair ;  "  we've  got  to 
begin  the  world  afresh." 

My  mother's  arms  steal  up 
about  his  neck ;  and  I,  feeling 
heavy  with  a  trouble  I  do  not 
understand,  creep  off  to  bed. 


V. 

THE   LEASE  OF  THE 
CROSS   KEYS. 


THE  LEASE   OF  THE 
CROSS  KEYS. 

I  HIS  story  is  about  a 
Bishop :  many  stories 
are.  One  Sunday  even- 
ing this  Bishop  had  to  preach  a 
sermon  at  St.  Paul's  Cathedral. 
The  occasion  was  a  very  special 
and  important  one,  and  every 
God-fearing  newspaper  in  the 
kingdom  sent  its  own  special 
representative  to  report  the 
proceedings. 

Now   of  the  three    reporters 
thus  commissioned    one  was  a 
man  of  appearance  so  eminently 
209 


2 1  o  LEA  SE  OF  THE  CROSS  KE  YS. 

respectable  that  no  one  would 
have  thought  of  taking  him  for 
a  journalist.  People  used  to 
put  him  down  for  a  County 
Councilor  or  an  Archdeacon  at 
the  very  least.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  however,  he  was  a  sin- 
ful man,  with  a  passion  for  gin. 
He  lived  at  Bow,  and  on  the 
Sabbath  in  question  he  left  his 
home  at  five  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon  and  started  to  walk 
to  the  scene  of  his  labors. 
The  road  from  Bow  to  the  City 
on  a  wet  and  chilly  Sunday 
evening  is  a  cheerless  one  ;  who 
can  blame  him  if  on  his  way 
he  stopped  once  or  twice  to 
comfort  himself  with  "  two  " 
of  his  favorite  beverage  ?  On 
reaching  St.  Paul's  he  found  he 


f — - 


',-t-:—-^ 


'"' //oi  .'  if  yoti  please,  my  liear^ 


LEA  SE  OF  THE  CROSS  KE  YS.    2 1 1 

had  twenty  minutes  to  spare — 
just  time  enough  for  one  final 
"  nip."  Halfway  down  a  nar- 
row court  leading  out  of  the 
Churchyard  he  found  a  quiet 
little  hostelry,  and,  entering  the 
private  bar,  whispered  insinu- 
atingly across  the  counter : 

"  Two  of  gin  hot,  if  you 
please,  my  dear." 

His  voice  had  the  self-satisfied 
meekness  of  the  successful  eccle- 
siastic, his  bearing  suggested 
rectitude  tempered  by  desire  to 
avoid  observation.  The  bar- 
maid, impressed  by  his  manner 
and  appearance,  drew  the  atten- 
tion of  the  landlord  to  him. 
The  landlord  covertly  took  stock 
of  so  much  of  him  as  could  be 
seen  between  his  buttoned  up 


212   LEASE  OF  THECROSS KEYS. 

coat  and  his  drawn  down  hat, 
and  wondered  how  so  bland 
and  innocent-looking  a  gentle- 
man came  to  know  of  gin. 

A  landlord's  duty,  however, 
is  not  to  wonder,  but  to  serve. 
The  gin  was  given  to  the  man, 
and  the  man  drank  it.  He 
liked  it.  It  was  good  gin :  he 
was  a  connoisseur,  and  he  knew. 
Indeed  so  good  did  it  seem  to 
him  that  he  felt  it  would  be  a 
waste  of  opportunity  not  to  have 
another  twopen'orth.  Therefore 
he  had  a  second  "go,"  maybe 
a  third.  Then  he  returned  to 
the  Cathedral,  and  sat  himself 
down  with  his  notebook  on  his 
knee  and  waited. 

As  the  service  proceeded 
there  stole  over  him  that  spirit 


LEA  SE  OF  THE  CROSS  KE  YS.    213 

of    indifference   to    all    earthly 
surroundings  that  religion  and 
drink  are  alone  able  to  bestow. 
He    heard    the   good    Bishop's 
text  and  wrote  it  down.     Then 
he  heard  the  Bishop's  "  sixthly 
and  lastly,"and  took  that  down, 
and  looked  at  his  notebook  and 
wondered    in    a   peaceful   way 
what  had  become  of  the  "firstly" 
to  "fifthly "  inclusive.     He  sat 
there  wondering  until  the  people 
round  him  began  to  get  up  and 
move  away,  whereupon  it  struck 
him  swiftly  and  suddenly  that 
he  had   been    asleep,   and  had 
thereby  escaped  the  main  body 
of  the  discourse. 

What  on  earth  was  he  to  do  ? 
He  was  representing  one  of  the 
leading  religious  papers.     A  full 


2 14  LEA  SE  OF  THE  CROSS KE  YS. 

report  of  the  sermon  was  wanted 
that  very  night.  Seizing  the 
robe  of  a  passing  wandsman, 
he  tremulously  inquired  if  the 
Bishop  had  yet  left  the  Cathe- 
dral. The  wandsman  answered 
that  he  had  not,  but  that  he 
was  just  on  the  point  of  doing 
so. 

"  I  must  see  him  before  he 
goes!"  exclaimed  the  reporter 
excitedly. 

"You  can't,"  replied  the 
wandsman.  The  journalist  grew 
frantic. 

"  Tell  him,"  he  cried,  "  a  peni- 
tent sinner  desires  to  speak  with 
him  about  the  sermon  he  has 
just  delivered.  To-morrow  it 
will  be  too  late." 

The  wandsman  was  touched, 


LEA SE  OF  THE  CROSS KE  YS.   215 

SO  was  the  Bishop.  He  said 
he  would  see  the  poor  fellow. 

As  soon  as  the  door  was  shut 
the  man,  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
told  the  Bishop  the  truth — 
leaving  out  the  gin.  He  said 
that  he  was  a  poor  man,  and 
not  in  good  health  ;  that  he  had 
been  up  half  the  night  before, 
and  had  walked  all  the  way 
from  Bow  that  evening.  He 
dwelt  on  the  disastrous  results 
to  himself  and  his  family  should 
he  fail  to  obtain  a  report  of  the 
sermon.  The  Bishop  felt  sorry 
for  the  man.  Also  he  was 
anxious  that  his  sermon  should 
be  reported. 

"Well,  I  trust  it  will  be  a 
warning  to  you  against  going 
to  sleep  in  church,"  he  said,  with 


2 1 6  LEA  SE  OF  THE  CROSS  KE  YS. 

an  indulgent  smile.  "  Luckily 
I  have  brought  my  notes  with 
me,  and  if  you  will  promise  to 
be  very  careful  of  them,  and  to 
bring  them  back  to  me  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning,  I  will 
lend  them  to  you." 

With  this  the  Bishop  opened 
and  handed  to  the  man  a  neat 
little  black  leather  bag,  inside 
which  lay  a  neat  little  roll  of 
manuscript. 

"  Better  take  the  bag  to  keep 
it  in,"  added  the  Bishop.  "  Be 
sure  and  let  me  have  them  both 
back  early  to-morrow." 

The  reporter,  when  he  ex- 
amined the  contents  of  the  bag 
under  a  lamp  in  the  Cathedral 
vestibule,  could  hardy  believe 
his  good  fortune.     The  careful 


LEA  SE  OF  THE  CROSS KE  YS.    217 

Bishop's  notes  were  so  full  and 
clear  that  for  all  practical  pur- 
poses they  were  equal  to  a  re- 
port. His  work  was  already- 
done.  He  felt  so  pleased  with 
himself  that  he  determined  to 
treat  himself  to  another  "  two  " 
of  gin,  and  with  this  intent 
made  his  way  across  to  the 
little  "  public "  before  men- 
tioned. 

"  It's  really  excellent  gin  you 
sell  here,"  he  said  to  the  bar- 
maid when  he  had  finished  ;  "  I 
think,  my  dear,  I'll  have  just 
one  more." 

At  eleven  the  landlord  gently 
but  firmly  insisted  on  his  leav- 
ing, and  he  went,  assisted  as 
far  as  the  end  of  the  court  by 
the    potboy.       After     he    was 


2 1 8   LEA  SE  OF  THE  CROSS  KE  YS. 

gone  the  landlord  noticed  a 
neat  little  black  bag  on  the  seat 
where  he  had  been  lying.  Ex- 
amining it  closely,  he  discovered 
a  brass  plate  between  the 
handles,  and  upon  the  brass 
plate  were  engraved  the  owner's 
name  and  title.  Opening  the 
bag,  the  landlord  saw  a  neat 
little  roll  of  manuscript,  and 
across  a  corner  of  the  manu- 
script was  written  the  Bishop's 
name  and  address. 

The  landlord  blew  a  long 
low  whistle,  and  stood  with  his 
round  eyes  wide  open  gazing 
down  at  the  open  bag.  Then 
he  put  on  his  hat  and  coat,  and 
taking  the  bag,  went  out  down 
the  court,  chuckling  hugely  as 
he  walked.     He   went  straight 


LEA  SE  OF  THE  CROSS  KE  YS.    2 1 9 

to  the  house  of  the  Resident 
Canon  and  rang  the  bell. 

"  Tell   Mr. ,"  he  said  to 

the  servant,  "  that  I  must  see 
him  to-night.  I  wouldn't  dis- 
turb him  at  this  late  hour  if  it 
wasn't  something  very  impor- 
tant." 

The  landlord  was  ushered  up. 
Closing  the  door  softly  behind 
him,  he  coughed  deferentially. 

"Well,  Mr.  Peters"  (I  will 
call  him  "  Peters "),  said  the 
Canon,  "  what  is  it  ?  " 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Peters 
slowly  and  deliberately,  "  it's 
about  that  there  lease  o'  mine. 
I  do  hope  you  gentlemen  will 
see  your  way  to  makin'  it 
twenty-one  year  instead  o'  four- 
teen." 


2  20  LEASE  OF  THE  CROSS KE  VS. 

"  God  bless  the  man  !  "  cried 
the  Canon,  jumping  up  indig- 
nantly, "  you  don't  mean  to 
say  you've  come  to  me  at  eleven 
o'clock  on  a  Sunday  night  to 
talk  about  your  lease  ?  " 

"  Well,  not  entirely,  sir,"  an- 
swered Peters,  unabashed ; 
"  there's  another  little  thing  I 
wished  to  speak  to  you  about, 
and  that's  this  " — saying  which 
he  laid  the  Bishop's  bag  be- 
fore the  Canon  and  told  his 
story. 

The  Canon  looked  at  Mr. 
Peters,  and  Mr.  Peters  looked 
at  the  Canon. 

"  There  must  be  some  mis- 
take," said  the  Canon. 

"  There's  no  mistake,"  said 
the  landlord.     "  I  had  my  sus- 


LEA  SE  OF  THE  CROSS  KE  YS.    221 

picions  when  I  first  clapped 
eyes  on  him.  I  seed  he  wasn't 
our  usual  sort,  and  I  seed  how 
he  tried  to  hide  his  face.  If  he 
weren't  the  Bishop,  then  I  don't 
know  a  Bishop  when  I  sees  one, 
that's  all.  Besides,  there's  his 
bag,  and  there's  his  sermon. 

Mr.  Peters  folded  his  arms 
and  waited.  The  Canon  pon- 
dered. Such  things  had  been 
known  to  happen  before  in 
Church  history.  Why  not 
again  ? 

"  Does  anyone  know  of  this 
besides  yourself?"  asked  the 
Canon. 

"  Not  a  livin'  soul,"  replied 
Mr.  Peters,  "  as  yet." 

"  I  think— I  think,  Mr. 
Peters,"  said  the  Canon,  "  that 


222   LEASE  OF  THE  CROSS KE  YS. 

we  may  be  able  to  extend  your 
lease  to  twenty-one  years." 

"  Thank  you  kindly,  sir,"  said 
the  landlord,  and  departed. 
Next  morning  the  Canon  waited 
on  the  Bishop  and  laid  the  bag 
before  him. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  Bishop  cheer- 
fully, "  he's  sent  it  back  by  you, 
has  he  ?  " 

"  He  has,  sir,"  replied  the 
Canon;  "and  thankful  I  am 
that  it  Avas  to  me  he  brought 
it.  It  is  right,"  continued  the 
canon,  "  that  I  should  inform 
your  lordship  that  I  am  aware 
of  the  circumstances  under 
which  it  left  your  hands." 

The  Canon's  eye  was  severe, 
and  the  Bishop  laughed  un- 
easily. 


LEA  SE  OF  THE  CROSS  KE  YS.   223 

"  I  suppose  it  wasn't  quite 
the  thing  for  me  to  do,"  he 
answered  apologetically  ;  "  but 
there,  all's  well  that  end's  well," 
and  the  Bishop  laughed. 

This  stung  the  Canon. 

"  Oh,  sir,"  he  exclaimed,  with 
a  burst  of  fervor,  "  in  Heaven's 
name — for  the  sake  of  our 
Church,  let  me  entreat — let  me 
pray  you  never  to  let  such  a 
thing  occur  again." 

The  Bishop  turned  upon  him 
angrily. 

"  Why,  what  a  fuss  you  make 
about  a  little  thing?  "  he  cried. 
Then,  seeing  the  look  of  agony 
upon  the  other's  face,  he 
paused. 

"  How  did  you  get  that  bag  ?  " 
he  asked. 


2  24  LEA  SE  OF  THE  CROSS  KE  YS. 

"The  landlord  of  the  Cross 
Keys  brought  it  me,"  an- 
swered the  Canon  ;  "  you  left 
it  there  last  night." 

The  Bishop  gave  a  gasp,  and 
sat  down  heavily.  When  he 
recovered  his  breath  he  told 
the  Canon  the  real  history  of 
the  case,  and  the  Canon  is  still 
trying  to  believe  it. 


THE   END. 


JEROME  L  JEROME'S  NOVEL  NOTES. 

With   140  hnlf-tone   illustrations,    12010, 
cloth,  $1.25. 


"and  flung  it  in  the  fire. 

Thought  to  be  the  author's  best  work.  It 
does  for  the  novelist's  world  what  "  Stage- 
land  "  did  for  the  actor's,  containing  much 
delightful  burlesque  of  the  tendencies  of 
modern  fiction.  Displays  a  marked  power 
in  the  handling  of  the  grotesque  and  terrible. 


SARAH  BARNWELL  ELLIOTT'S  NOVELS. 

Uniform  edition,  i2mo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

JOHN  PAGET. 

"  A  story  very  far  above  the  ordinary." — 
Buffalo  Covimercial. 

"  Is  vivacious  and  humorous,  and  its  scenes 
are  evidently  drawn  from  life."  —  The 
C/iurcknian. 

"  A  sweet,  earnest  study  of  human  nature, 
neither  too  trusting  nor  bordered  by  pessi- 
mism, but  just  a  simple,  natural,  whole- 
some and  thoroughly  satisfactory  novel." 
— Minneapolis  Tribune. 

JERRY,   A  Story  of  a  Western 
Mining  Town, 

"  Opens  on  a  plane  of  deep  emotional  force, 
and  never  for  a  chapter  does  it  sink  below 
that  level."— Z//i-. 

"  All  the  scenes  in  Durden's  mine  are  excel- 
lent. The  mystery  and  the  terror  of  the 
old  workings  are  indicated  with  decided 
power,  and  the  description  is  graphic  and 
impressive.  .  .  '  Jerry  '  is  a  really  fresh, 
vigorous,  and  highly  interesting  story." — 
N.  y.  Tribune. 

"  This  is  the  most  distinctly  original  Amer- 
ican novel  that  ha.s  been  published  in  ten 
years." — N.  Y.  World. 

THE  FELMERES. 

Displays  the  same  intense  earnestness  that 
characterizes  "  Jerry,"  and  in  the  lonely 
pirl  of  the  opening  chapters  gives  a  fine 
ion  study  of  childhood  to  that  of  the 


com 


panion  study 
boy  in  "  Jerry.' 

HENRY  HOLT  &  CO.,  29  W.  23(1  St..  N.  Y. 


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